


Son of Gogol

by peterlorrecompanion



Category: Mad Love - Fandom, Peter Lorre - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Peter Lorre - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3960022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterlorrecompanion/pseuds/peterlorrecompanion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the second part of the House of Gogol trilogy, the sinister Dr. Marins takes Dr. Gogol and Magdalena on a weird journey through South America involving shipwreck, a Satanic house party, illicit orthopedic surgery, and a fateful reunion with Stephen Orlac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Son of Gogol

"That's an adorable machete, Baroness. Is it for your little boy?" 

The Titian-haired lady in green looked up for a moment from the little garments the salesgirl had set out for her. "Do I know you, Senor?" she said, in an uninflected tone meaning: very well if I do, but no nonsense. 

The man in the black bowler hat and goatee smiled, his fingers wandering in among the figurines in a creche display on the counter. "I shouldn't feel slighted if you don't remember," he said. "We met some time ago." 

"Evidently, some time ago," said the lady, “since I haven't gone by the title of Baroness for several years. Maria, I'll take the costume, and that little ball. Wrap them up for me, please." 

"So ... Senora," said the man, stroking the black face of Balthazar. "Your little boy likes to play gaucho?" 

"He'll play anything if it means guns and knives. Maria, use the silver and blue paper." 

"Again, I shouldn't be surprised you don't remember me," the man said, leaning in closer. "Those were hectic nights, up at Dr. Aguirre's clinic. And at the time you weren't thinking of anything but that poor devil whose skull we were all peering into." 

"God in Heaven!" the lady cried. 

She seized his arm so violently he nearly dropped the baby Jesus. 

"You're Marins," she whispered. "The neurosurgeon from Sao Paulo."

"I didn't think I was that forgettable!"

"Shall I charge these to your account, Senora Skillington?" said Maria. 

"Oh, yes, and here's a little something, happy Christmas, for your little ones." 

"Oh thank you, Senora! Happy Christmas," Maria called, wondering why the lady had taken such a sudden interest in that mean-looking man. 

Clutching her parcel in one hand, grabbing Marins with the other, the Senora pulled him through the crush of toy shoppers. There was an English-style tea shop next door; they found a table near the back.

"What's this about you not being a Baroness anymore?" asked Marins, after the waitress had gone. 

"My God! All this trouble with names!" said the lady wearily, reaching for a cigarette. "I mean, I've still got my title. I just think it's in bad taste to flaunt your noble ancestry in this part of the world. People don't understand what it means; they think they all have to curtsey to you." 

"Still, you won't mind if I call you Baroness? I can't bring myself to think of you as a commoner." 

She laughed and shook her head.

"But being the wife of Senor Skillington," Marins added, "that hardly rates as being a commoner around these parts." 

"It's strange to see you like this, Dr. Marins. After all this time. But I'm glad we ran into each other. I often think, you know, about...that time. I wondered so often what happened after I left the clinic. I felt so bad, abandoning him like that. It must have seemed unfeeling of me, I know." 

"But you still paid all his medical bills."

"Then they stopped coming. They never said why, I never asked. Afraid to find out, I suppose. I couldn't bear to hear it if he died." 

"Well, he didn't." 

That little shuddering exhalation; was that happiness, he wondered, or something a little tenser?

"As a matter of fact," he went on, "he made an astonishing recovery. I'd say he was back to full functioning within six weeks." 

"Is that really true? What about his brain?" 

"There were no indications of damage to any serious extent. Nothing like we'd anticipated. And that tumor we excised turned out to be utterly benign. At first Dr. Aguirre was worried that he might be suffering some sort of motor aphasia. He can read and write, and understand perfectly what's said to him, but he doesn't speak, he hasn't uttered a word since we operated. There seems to be no organic reason for it."

"Do you think maybe it's--what would you call it--some sort of traumatic hysteria?" 

"You might call it that. I think it's just his nature. He's a very perverse individual." He examined the cake tray with approval. 

"I suppose he must be angry at me," she said. "Leaving him there at that clinic." 

"Angry? At you?" Marins exclaimed, reaching for a walnut cake. "Baroness, you are life itself to that man." 

"How long did you stay with him?"

"I could only stay at Aguirre's clinic for a few weeks, I had to get back to my own practice in Sao Paulo. So I took him with me." 

"You--”

"That's why the bills stopped. He tried to contact you, but I persuaded him it was better to let you alone. And by that time, anyway, you couldn't be found.

"That must be one thing about being a woman," he smiled. "It's so easy to change your identity. Your name, anyway." 

"So have you been taking care of him all this time?" 

"I felt it was best to get him out of that clinic. Apparently he had some argument with Dr. Aguirre about his medications, he had become...rather belligerent. So I took him under my own care. I could see that he needed someone to look after him. Your friend is a brilliant man, and from what I've observed he seems to have most of his faculties. But he can be unpredictable. 

"But he's proved to be quite useful to me. I even call him in on some of my more intriguing cases, the ones that seem to be in his line. It wasn't easy at first, working in surgery with someone who won't talk to you. But we worked out a way of communicating, hand signals, little punches. We make good partners in crime, I think."

"I'm glad to know he's able to use his talents again. Work was always his greatest joy in life." 

"Oh, not so, Baroness. I don't think he's ever been happy since the day he came out of the ether and we told him you'd disappeared. He wept as though his heart would break. And then, when you couldn't be found...poor man, he nearly turned to stone." 

"Tell me," she said, slowly. "What business brought you to Buenos Aires, Dr. Marins? This is a sad time of year to be so far from your home."

Marins brushed a bit of sugar from the tuft under his lower lip. "We came to see you, Baroness. That was my Christmas present to Gogol." 

That look on her face; good. "Or should I say, Hanukkah present," he grinned.

"You know his real name?" she whispered.

"I know a lot of things about the both of you." 

"What did he tell you?" 

"He didn't tell me anything. I told you, the little bastard won't talk. But I knew that name you had him registered under at Dr. Aguirre's was a fake. I looked in every directory I could find; I even checked with the medical authorities. There was no orthopedic surgeon named Dr. Lysenko; there never was.

"So I put two and two together. I remembered reading about the Orlac murders back in '35; I looked back in some old medical journals of mine, and found Gogol's picture." 

She trembled, breathing heavily.

"So," said Marins. "I learned that our little friend was a homicidal maniac. And you were protecting him. You thought you could handle him; you couldn't. That's why you abandoned him at Aguirre's. But you don't need to worry; I'm willing to keep him away from you. And if you're reasonable your husband will never find out about your little adventures together." 

There was, he noted, a little tear starting to wobble over the pillow of pink flesh at the corner of her eye.

"I understand," she snapped. "Well. You've picked an idiotic time to do this to me. The banks are crowded, they all close in half an hour. I suppose they won't have as much time to stop and wonder if I seem to be taking out too much money. How much do you want?" 

"Do I look like a man who needs money to you?" 

"All right then. What do you want?"

"Your notebook. The one you used to bring Gogol back to life." 

The little tear jumped off its pillow, and ran down the curve of her cheek. "He even told you that! My God, you must have tortured him!" 

"Well, I did, but give me credit. I figured it out for myself before even broaching the subject to him. 

"It was while I was examining his cerebral cortex that I noticed the anomaly. I'd never seen tissue in that condition before except in specimens I'd dissected. Never in a living subject. Then when I assessed the true extent of the injuries he'd suffered, I realized he could never have survived what he'd been through. If all those blows and punctures hadn't killed him, repairing them would have. Of course Aguirre pretended he knew nothing about it, and the others were too stupid to guess. Gogol finally confessed to the truth. It took a lot to get it out of him. My God, I laughed at myself! Here I am, and here's Gogol and Aguirre, with our scalpels and needles, thinking we're great men of science, the saviors of mankind. And here's one little woman, without a medical degree to her name, and she's got the spark of God in her hand! 

"But what really overwhelmed me was when I realized you'd done it twice. That scar on his back! Where Orlac stabbed him. That's what I call immortality! I think about what could be done with that kind of power. And what pitiful use you put it to. Resurrecting that perverted little wretch. You might as well give me that formula. You can be sure I'd do something better than that with it. 

"Where do you keep the notebook? in your safety deposit box, I thought so. Not much time before the bank closes. Better finish your tea."

She set her cup down so hard in its saucer it shattered. She hissed: "That formula has been in my family for eight generations now. Do you think this is the first time anyone's tried to blackmail it away from us?"

She started thrusting on her gloves. "Go ahead. Tell my husband. You can broadcast it on the radio for all I care. What's the worst that could happen? I'll lose my marriage, my child. if you tell the authorities, they'll extradite me to France--the Nazis are there, they don't like me, I wouldn't last long. And of course you'd give them Gogol, too, and they'd send him to some concentration camp. While you're at it, why don't you go over there yourself and sign up with the SS? You'd look superb in black boots and a swastika." 

She made an exit worthy of Dietrich.

"And she's left behind all her little presents," Marins muttered to himself. 

He stalked through the streets, kicking and jostling the holidaymakers he passed. This hadn't come out at all the way he'd practiced it. This just proved the value of having an alternate plan. 

It was nearly twilight when he returned to his room. "Look what I have here!" he said. Gogol sat up sulkily, scratching his arm. "Yes! I got your prescription. But something else too." He rattled the bag. "Presents in pretty blue paper! For a little boy named Ivan." 

Gogol rolled his eye, held out his arm, palm up.

"Not for you," said Marins. "For that other little Ivan. How would you like to play Father Christmas tonight?" 

 

***

 

"Magdalena, my dear!" said Fritz, tiptoeing up to kiss her. "I thought you'd never come! I'm almost as excited as Ivan is." 

"Well, I think Father Christmas has a surprise for you, too. Tell Evita and Ana to bring him down in five minutes." 

The tree was all dressed and ready. Perhaps a quick brandy first. No, Magdalena, you're unsteady enough as it is. You don't want to burn the house down on your last Christmas Eve.

Carefully, she touched the flame of her cigarette lighter to each of the slim white candles fixed to the fir branches. Then she switched off the lights. As the footsteps approached, she remembered, just in time, to slip the last packages under the tree. She regretted having abandoned the other gaucho suit in the tea shop; this one wasn't nearly as nice, and no machete.

And there was Ivan blinking in the doorway, beautiful little man! with his lovely matched pair of nurses smiling behind him. Fritz took him hand in hand and led him as close as was safe to the glimmering tapers. Evita and Ana cooed how pretty it was. 

"Ivan! Do you know what that is?" Fritz whispered.

"My tree." 

"Yes! It's just like Mamma used to have when she was a little girl in Ingolstadt. Do you see the angel at the top?"

"I see the angel at the top and the angel in the window." 

"An angel in the window!" 

"He's ugly. " 

"He means the reflection of the angel in the window, how it's all backwards," said Magdalena, petting him. "He's so sensitive to anything that's the least bit uncanny. You're a regular Hoffmann, my darling!" 

 

***

 

"Thank you," she said that night in bed. "That was kind of you, Fritz, to let us have the tree this year." 

"Well, he must learn his traditions," Fritz said, settling back onto his own pillow. "All of them. Then when he comes of an age, he can choose. or not choose. He can be an old unbeliever, like his papa." 

He came back for another kiss. "Or an angel," he said, "like Mamma."

She watched him as he sank in to sleep. I've been married to him three years, she thought, and never touched anyone else. Magdalena, he's made a respectable woman out of you. 

She put on her nightclothes again, and went to the bathroom to wash. Then she decided she'd have a cigarette and a glass of milk before she settled in for the night. She went down to the room where she'd left her smoking paraphernalia, on the arm of a chair near the tree. Not bothering to turn on the light, she started a cigarette. And there, illuminated by her lighter, she saw the angel in the window. That smooth, pale head, with its ridges of scar tissue, that great dark eye. And, where the other eye had been once, a shadowed hollow of loose flesh. 

She clicked the lighter closed; they stared at one another in the darkness. Then Gogol raised his hands. In one he held a child's ball; in the other, a wooden machete. 

She walked quickly out of the room. She'd hidden Victor's old pistol away in a hatbox upstairs, not very convenient. Perhaps she could use one of Fritz's? God, where did he keep them? There was a letter opener on the mail stand in the entryway, the kind that's like a Spanish dagger. Yes, this was the weapon for a daughter of the Frankensteins.

She went through the door, locking it behind her. They wouldn't get in; not without waking Fritz; she'd scream her lungs bloody; and Ana and Evita, those little vixens, they'd have to best them before they'd get to Ivan. 

She curled her fingers tightly round the hilt of the dagger, holding it against the inside of her wrist. As quietly as she could, staying close to the wall, she walked round the side of the house. The moonlight was blinding bright. She gasped as the little, jingling cellophane ball ran out of the shadows at her. 

Gogol stood over in the shade of a fat cycad. The ruined side of his face blurred in the darkness, he looked almost the way he used to. For a moment, she felt confused. 

"Gogol," she whispered. 

Startled, he turned his head. The wooden machete slipped from his hand, bounced next to him on the grass. The moonlight struck him cruelly; his empty eye filled with blackness. 

The old Gogol was plump, with a face like the moon; they've shrunk him, she thought. He wore an old suit and black jersey, like a hunchback servant in an Yvonne Orlac movie. Little skeleton man, what do you want with me?

"Where's Marins?" she said. 

Gogol turned his head as if looking for him, his single eye rolling warily.

"Didn't he send you here?" 

A half smile twisted his mouth, then vanished. 

"He sent you here to frighten me. But I'm not afraid. You can tell him that. Go. Tell him. 

"I said, go." 

Gogol glowered and folded his arms. 

"Oh, so you've come to stay as a house guest?" 

They stared at one another for some minutes.

"I should have expected you'd turn against me," she muttered at last. "That's the way it's always happened." 

His arms unfolded. Slowly, he stepped towards her. She flipped out the dagger. "All right, monster," she said, “you’d better run." 

He came closer. She stood her ground. Hand to hand combat? So be it, it's part of the legend. 

He stopped, inches away from the blade. Very slowly, drawing his arms back, clasping his hands behind him, he leaned forward until the tip of it touched him so she could feel the throb of his heart through the steel, and closed his eyes. 

She threw the letter opener aside. He fell to his knees, took up the hem of her gown and kissed it. "Oh, Gogol!" she said, almost laughing, with tears in her eyes. 

He slipped his little hand into hers; she led him down the long wall, round the house, and past the garden, across the wet lawns. The frogs were chirping everywhere; must be their mating night. She took him to the guest house. There was a little daybed in the front parlor, where they sat down together. Gogol held her hand in both of his, stroking her fingers. 

"Gogol! Oh, I've longed to see you again! Have you really come back to me? Can you ever forgive me for leaving you with that terrible man?" 

Gogol bent down and went kiss, kiss along the back of her hand.

"I'm so glad you're not angry with me. Oh, but you look so tired! Rest now, darling, don't be afraid. If that Marins shows up you know what I'll do to him!" 

Snuggling his head against her shoulder, he closed his eye. Half dozing herself, she felt the little kick as he drifted off to sleep. 

Then she saw their mingled shadow, bent round the corner of the floor behind them. It trembled, caught in the beam of an uncertainly held flashlight. Above the glare of the light, through the windowpane, she saw Fritz. 

Then the light dropped away. As gently as she could, she pulled out from under Gogol, and went out.

Fritz stood next to the jade shrub, his feet bathed in the light cast by the fallen flashlight.

"I suppose," he said, "if I were anything worth calling a man, I'd get my gun and kill the both of you." 

"It's what the Latin men would do," she said quietly.

"Well. You're lucky you married a Jew, then."

"Fritz, if I told you the truth about that man in there, you'd know there's no reason to be jealous." 

"You're not going to explain this away, Magdalena. If you had to take a lover, did you have to bring him here, to this house, with your child in there sleeping? Oh, this is more than I can stand. You'd better go away, the both of you, before I really lose my mind." 

"Fritz, listen to me." 

"There's nothing to listen to, nothing I want to listen to," said Fritz, very near tears now. "I can't bear to hear it, truth or lies. You'd better go now. Go!" 

Then he gasped. Gogol had just popped in between them. 

Fritz stepped back. He had been expecting a rival something more lovely than himself, certainly not this little ghoul, with its bare, bald head and gaping no-eye.

"You're right to send me away," she said. "I live in a darker world than you do. I thought I could follow you and escape, but--it would be a sin to bring you or the child into this."

Gogol clung to her skirts, staring balefully at Fritz with his extant eye. Fritz seemed glad she was there between them. 

"Give me five minutes, and I'll be gone. I'll stay out of your sight. Go ahead and call the lawyers; I'll agree to any terms you want, as long as you let me keep what was mine before I met you. You'll keep the boy, of course. What kind of mother have I turned out to be anyway?" 

"The best in the world," Fritz murmured falteringly. Gogol smiled and rubbed his head along her arm. 

"Five minutes," she said, and set off towards the house, Gogol scampering after her. 

"You see what a palace I've lived in, Gogol?" she said, as they went in. "Better than my villa at Neuilly, in some ways. It all belongs to Fritz. Fritz is one of the few rich men I've ever known who deserved to be rich. 

"Up here, these were my rooms. Let me stop and take a few things. I won't be very long." She opened a valise, pulled some things from drawers and hangers, gathered up a few boxes. Gogol obligingly acted as porter.

"Would you like to see my little Ivan?" she asked. 

She led him to the nursery, past the anteroom where Ana and Evita slumbered on either side of Ivan's bedroom door. Neither of them stirred as they entered his room. There the child lay, his plump little face pressed into his pillow, his pale hair gleaming in the blue light of the lamp she always kept lit by his bedside. She kissed the sleeping boy, picked up a stuffed monkey and tucked it under the coverlet next to him. 

"And now we must go, Dr. Gogol," she said. 

Fritz met them on the landing. "Magdalena, I must speak to you. Perhaps I've been rash--perhaps I should talk this over with you and hear your side of things. Won't you send him away so we can talk alone?" 

"I would if I could," she replied. "Goodbye, my dearest." 

She bent to kiss him. Gogol snarled so violently they both flinched.

"Don't go, Magdalena, please," Fritz whispered. "Not with that...man." 

"It's too late," she said, "too late!" And Gogol yanked her out the door. 

 

***

 

There was nothing to do but check into a hotel and wait. They'd managed to book passage on a ship that was leaving the next day. They passed the time dozing, and listening to Hitler's speeches on the radio. 

The next morning, they provisioned themselves for the trip. She found a shop that had some passable off the rack suits for him. Luckily, with his new, trimlined proportions, Gogol was relatively easy to fit. Noticing the salesmen's nervous reaction to her protege's appearance, she next stopped at an orthopedic supply shop and got him an eye patch. He looked rather magnificent, except for the scars. She remembered a wigmaker that a friend of Fritz's had confided in her about; Gogol went there reluctantly, but with what results! She seemed to have created a sort of miniature Charles Boyer. She noticed the sly stares of the ladies, and a few of the men, as they boarded their ship. "And who's that little pirate?" she heard someone tittering. 

She'd asked for adjoining staterooms. But she found out they'd only been allotted one, all the others being filled up with holiday travelers, and this one had a double bed. Of course, they'd registered as Dr. and Mrs. Lysenko. She had the steward bring in a cot. 

That night the ship rocked even more nastily than usual, and the cot groaned and strutted all over the stateroom, trying to throw poor Gogol off. At last, apparently, he'd had enough, and she felt him fall in beside her. All right, he might as well stay in a soft place; but it was obvious neither of them was going to get any sleep. 

Really, the swells were awful; it was like an endless earthquake. They held onto the headboard to keep from falling out, as green lightning flashed across the room and thunder cracked and pounded against the wall of the ship. And then the rolling lengthened and the thunder faded to murmurs. And Gogol still lay there, not sleeping, but looking at her with that softly maniacal expression she remembered, with a sudden pang, from that morning he'd almost cornered her in her suite at the Chateau Marmont. 

He told me he'd never known the love of a woman. God in Heaven! Can it be, after all these years...? And where will you run to now, Magdalena? 

 

***

 

The sodden heat was unbearable, unbreathable; the sunlight seared through the porthole like a fat laser ray. She had never felt more bare before in her entire life, like she'd been skinned. She trembled without ceasing. Gogol pressed iced compresses to her face and body, his face all gentle concern. "Has this ever happened to you before?" he asked. 

Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, choking off speech. "It's not a normal reaction, then? I didn't think so," he laughed tenderly. He found a jar of rosewater unguent among her things, and started stroking some of it along the friction rash-stippled surfaces of her skin. 

"I'm glad we're getting out of this part of the world," he said. "You and I weren't made to live this side of the equator." He peeled the latest compress from her forehead.

"Feeling better?" he asked. "You forgive me, don't you? It's all just my newness to this, I'm afraid my scientific curiosity got the better of me. I'll be more considerate next time." 

Taking up a little book and turning to the page he liked, he gazed down at her with ravenous pride. 

"'Raise me a dais of silk and down,"' he read; 

"'Hang it with vair and purple dyes;  
Carve it in doves, and pomegranates,  
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;  
Work it in gold and silver grapes,  
In leaves, and silver fleursdelys;  
Because the birthday of my life is come,  
my love is come to me.'"

 

*** 

 

"And where are you bound for, Dr. Lysenko?" 

"Haiti, I think," replied Gogol, dabbling his spoon in his creme brulee. "That or Havana. We haven't decided how far this voyage will take us yet." 

"You'd better make up your mind before it's too late. We've nearly passed Guiana already." 

"Really?" Gogol asked, intrigued. "Have we come to Devil's Island yet?" 

"Horacio has a cousin on Devil's island," Dona da Silva giggled. 

"Flor, please!" growled General da Silva. 

"We're in the tricky part of the journey now," mused Mrs. Morrison. "I always hold my breath once we're this side of the Caribbean. We're into the hungry part of the sea now." 

"Why, what do you mean?"

"She means," said Senor Gilberto, "from here to the coast of Florida is where ships and planes and things...disappear. And no one knows why." 

"You mean we'll SINK?" Dona da Silva squeaked. 

"We'll do no such thing," the General declared. "What could happen to a perfectly sound vessel like this in a clear, calm sea?" 

"What about the Titanic?" queried Mrs. Morrison. "They didn't think anything could happen to that! Unsinkable, they said!"

"I don't see any icebergs round here, Mrs. Morrison," smirked Senor Gilberto.

"What about submarines? Now that the Americans are in the war, who knows where they'll start in shooting?" 

"Dear lady," said the General, "I hardly think the Americans are going to mistake a shipful of drunken Brazilians for some Japanese man-o-war." 

"Are you implying that I'm drunk, Horacio?" cried Dona da Silva. "I've only had half a glass of Moet the whole evening. Oh, and now the bottle's empty." She waved at the wine steward. "You'll have some champagne with me, Dr. Lysenko, won't you? No? Not even a little hot pepper vodka? Oh, but you must, it's New Year's! Won't you get just a little merry with us?" 

"Oh, I--I'd like to keep a clear head tonight." 

"We must all seem a little boisterous to you, Dr. Lysenko," Mrs. Morrison laughed. "But I do hope you'll go down with us to the party, just for a little while." 

"Oh, do!" cried Dona da Silva. "Mrs. Morrison and I will teach you the Bahia Rhumba."

"Why, what's that?" 

"It's just a little thing we girls picked up below the equator," Mrs. Morrison smiled. 

"I may join you in a little while," said Gogol, folding his serviette. "Excuse me, please."

Taking leave of his supper companions, he strolled onto the deck. He heard the sounds of the celebration going on below, the orchestra playing some woozy foxtrot. Bracing his hands against the railings, looking up at the clear, piercing lights of the stars and planets, he could imagine he was seeing it all again in three dimensions, all that terrifying blackness above and below. He felt as if the ship could tip and he could plunge forever, into either abyss. 

Little lacquered talons dug into his hand. Dona da Silva was there beside him, her silver gown and wet little teeth glinting in the starlight. "I'd better hold on to you, Dr. Lysenko," she said. "Looked like you were about to slip over the side." 

She withdrew her hand from his, lingeringly.

"I really thought you'd meant it when you said you'd come down to play with us. I'll bet you were thinking of creeping off to hide in your cabin." 

"Well, I should be retiring presently. To see the new year in with my wife." 

"I'm beginning to think you're joking with us, about this phantom wife of yours. Mrs. Morrison says she hasn't emerged from that compartment once this entire voyage." 

"She's been rather indisposed. Probably sleeping now. She had a very difficult and strenuous time of it last night. And this morning, come to think of it. Poor Magdalena!" 

"Then you shouldn't disturb her. Didn't you say you liked music? We'll go to my room. I've got some gramophone records there you'd probably adore. Knowing what a strange sort of man you are." 

"What kind of music is this?" 

"Classical music...of the more modern variety. They're very rare recordings, they were made years ago by a very brilliant pianist. He doesn't play any more, they say, his hands were injured in an accident; they couldn't be fixed. They say he went mad and murdered his doctor." 

"And what was the name of this pianist?" Gogol said sharply. 

"His name was Orlac."

"Orlac? STEPHEN ORLAC?" 

"Why yes--that's" 

"AND WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF THIS ORLAC?" 

"Dr. Lysenko, please, you're hurting me!" 

He released her, flexing his hands. "Forgive me, my dear," he said. "I'm not quite feeling myself tonight. How did you come to know about Orlac?" 

"Well," she said, nursing her bruised shoulders. "Since you're so worked up about the subject! 

“I saw him once, when I was a girl. It must have been seven or eight years ago. It was a concert in Fontainebleau, he played one of his own compositions. I've never forgotten it. It was the oddest music I've ever heard. Like a dance of mad puppets. Anyway. My brother found some records of his in Paris last year, and sent them to me. He said they were the last ones he ever made." 

"What else do you know about Orlac?" 

"Only what I've told you. That's all." 

Gogol adjusted his eye patch. "Well," he said. "There's a lot more to the story than that. Would you like to hear it?"

Dona da Silva considered this. 

"I'd like some champagne first," she declared. 

They sat in one of the abandoned drawing rooms, the muffled furor of the celebration wafting in from below deck. Dona da Silva watched the bubbles purling up from the stem dimple in her glass, as Gogol folded his hands on his knees. 

"Eight years ago, it must have been," he said, "Stephen Orlac had the misfortune to marry an actress named Yvonne. She was a woman with the face of an odalisque by Ingres. And long, black hair, like black watered silk. The sort of hair that entangles you. Do you know what I mean? 

"So he married her. Then he set her aside, and went on a concert tour. For a year--imagine that! he left her alone in Paris. She was working there at the Theatre des Horreurs--you've heard of it?" 

"The Theater of Horrors? What sort of place is that?" 

"Oh a wonderful place--they do the most extraordinary plays there. All about torture, and murder, and the revenge of the dead." 

"I don't think that sounds very nice." 

"It's quite popular. In fact, some of the best people go there from time to time. There was a doctor, a very eminent medical scientist, who made it his habit to attend their performances quite often. He had a professional interest in guillotine executions, things like that, and that was the sort of illusion they specialized in. He was very impressed by their realism. But mostly, he went there to see Yvonne."

"To see her get her head chopped off?" 

"Yes, and other things. It gave him such a feeling of tenderness, to watch her submit to those mutilations and decapitations. And then to see her resurrected and smiling, after the curtain fell. Like a goddess of indestructible beauty. He realized this was the woman for him. So one night, after the show, he decided to go backstage, and claim her." 

"And she told him, 'I'm terribly sorry, Doctor, but my husband's coming back from his concert tour tonight.'" 

"How did you know?" 

"So what happened then?"

"Well, then the train wreck happened, Orlac lost his hands in it. So Yvonne went to the doctor that loved her and begged him to do something; no one else could. So he sewed the hands of a dead man onto the stumps where Orlac's hands had been." 

"This sounds like something out of an old German horror film." 

"Does it?" said Gogol, testily. "Well, let me tell you, it was a triumph of medical engineering. When a man has the power of science behind him, and the power of love besides, he can do anything."

"He must have loved her very much, to help her husband like that, when he wanted her for himself." 

"Oh, well. His motives weren't altogether altruistic!" 

"I didn't think so!" said Dona da Silva. 

"So Gogol began to formulate a plan, by which he could have Yvonne all to himself. What he did was--" 

"Don't tell me," Dona da Silva said eagerly. "First he waits a year or so until the happy couple gets a little bit sick of happiness, and Orlac goes off on tour again. Then, Gogol sends her some lovely gardenias, with a note saying how much he's missed her. Then some roses and a little box from Cartier's, just a pretty little comb for her hair. Then orchids. And a diamond pin. And so forth, until that day they deliver a velvet case the size of a three pound chocolate box--she opens it and there's bracelets and earrings and a necklace all set with emeralds. That night he stops to pick her up and they're off to Cap d'Antibes. And he swears he'll buy her a villa there the minute she files the divorce papers. And that's when Orlac really goes mad!" 

"That's not what happened," said Gogol dejectedly. 

"Well, what did happen, then?" 

He told her. "Now, that is really ridiculous," said Dona da Silva indignantly. "What an idiotic way to behave! He obviously didn't know the first thing about women." 

"No," sighed Gogol, "he didn't." 

"Poor Orlac!" said Dona da Silva, reaching for the bottle. "Lost his mind, lost his music. All because of some nasty, incompetent doctor." 

Gogol's eye twitched. "Incompetent!" 

"Yes, what else would you call him? If he truly was this great surgeon you say he was, why couldn't he have fixed Orlac's hands so he could play properly? It's too bad Gogol's dead now. That was stupid of Orlac to kill him. I'll bet if he'd fixed Orlac's hands so he could play the piano again, that would have cured his madness. He could have gotten out of that asylum and been with his wife again. She didn't remarry, did she?" 

"No," said Gogol. "She never has stopped waiting for him. "

"Isn't that always the way! It's so much easier to be madly and eternally devoted to someone you can't get your hands on." 

He smiled wanly. "Do you know," he said, "I'd like to hear those recordings now." 

They went to her cabin. She set up the gramophone and shook one of the discs out of its brown paper sleeve. Gogol sat on the bed, rustling his fingers along the coverlet. 

Orlac opened the movement quietly, with a long, low series of formal flourishes. Then he took a right turn into a romping staccato of ragtime chords, dissonant, almost hysterical. It was like a macabre Gershwin rhapsody, a jived-up gavotte for metropolitan goblins. Dona da Silva had once danced to that melody at a school recital, in a red tunic and a little straw hat. The thought of it made her queasy now. 

"That's enough," he said, as she went to turn it over. "May I borrow that record, Dona da Silva? I'd like to play it for my wife." 

"Of course you can, Dr. Gogol. I mean--" 

He stared at her in such a way that she almost dropped the disk. 

"Funny I should call you that," she said, with an unsteady smile, handing it to him. "Dr. Lysenko. Do tell me what your wife thinks of it." 

He walked back to his cabin. He heard the screams of party horns, happy cries; the band started playing that old Scottish song. The lights were on; he heard voices inside. He unlocked the door. Magdalena was leaning against the wall, wrapped in a marabou bed jacket, clutching a cigarette. She stared stonily across the room to where the black, lanky figure of Valdemar Marins sat astride the foot of the bed, twisting a silver automatic pistol in his fingers. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot," Marins said, "and never brought to mind?" 

 

***

 

"This all took me by surprise, Gogol. I thought that job back in Buenos Aires would have been something you'd relish. What happened? Did you gaze into that angelic little face and decide you couldn't go through with it? Or did that dried-up little husband of hers frighten you off? 

"Didn't he explain our plan to you, Baroness? Go on and tell her, Gogol. 

"He's not talking again. Must need a fix. All right, I'll tell her. The understanding was that the little doctor would slip in the window and slip out again with your child, and bring him to me. Then we'd send you a letter, and if we didn't get a satisfactory response, then we'd set about sending your baby back to you. Piece by piece. And if that didn't work, we'd come get you, and see it we could make you more sensible, piece by piece. The little doctor can be very skillful with his scalpel, when he wants. 

"She tells me," Marins continued, turning to Gogol, "she doesn't have the notebook here. But I know the two of you visited her safe deposit box back in Buenos Aires before you got on this ship. I'm not wasting any more time searching, myself. You show me where it is, now."

He took aim at Magdalena's head. "You know, at this distance I could take her right eye out quite cleanly. You'd be a matched set then." 

"Go ahead," said Gogol. "Do you think she's afraid?" 

"How about you, then?" Marins retorted, pointing the muzzle in his direction. "Shall we see if the Baroness can put you together again, this time without a brain?" 

Magdalena strode to the armoire, threw it open. She took out a hat box, one that Marins had already been through twice before, and pried out a piece of round cardboard, tossed it aside. "This is my gift to you, Dr. Marins," she said. "For taking such good care of Dr. Gogol." She snatched out Victor's pistol and shot Marins. 

She'd hit him just below the shoulder. "Nice clean wound there," said Gogol, examining it. "But you should have aimed a little to the right. He'll take a lot longer to die this way."

"We could...finish him off....”

"Out of the question, Magdalena. After all, I'm a doctor, I've got my ethics to think of. Besides that, I'm tired of killing. We'll wait till everyone's gone to bed, then throw him over the side. Give me that scarf, he's making too much noise. And put on this record for me, will you?"

The long, slow introduction to the goblin gavotte began again. "My God," said Magdalena, "that's Stephen Orlac. " 

"That's another thing. Do you think it would be possible to us to find a passage to Marseille, with the war on? " 

"Why in God's name would you want to do that?" 

"I want to go to Paris." 

"Are you joking, Gogol?" 

"No, I want to take care of some unfinished business. Perhaps we could take the boat from New York going to England, and cross the channel--you'll come with me, won't you?

"Magdalena," he went on earnestly. "I've had a revelation. That music that's playing right now? That's the music I killed. But I'm like you, you know, I have the way to bring the dead back to life. You see? It's not too late, I could go to Orlac now, and give him what he's wanted so desperately all these years. Magdalena. I can make him play again!"

"Gogol? I think it's time for your morphia suppository." 

"Don't you believe me? You think I couldn't do it? Ohh, you're wrong, I'm ten times the surgeon I was in Paris. Wait till I tell you about those experiments Marins and I worked up back in Sao Paulo! 

"Or are you afraid of the Nazis? That's no problem. We'll go in disguise, we'll slip through in the night, they'll never catch us. You and me, remember all those things we used to do together? Remember how we found those feet for Lily in Chinatown, and--and how we broke into Yvonne Orlac's mansion that night?" 

"Well, what about Orlac's hands? You're forgetting, those aren't his hands at all, not the hands of a pianist. You took them off Rollo the knife-thrower."

"That doesn't matter, whoever's hands they are, it's only a problem of giving them the proper motor coordination. I know exactly what I'll do, I've got it all in my head. First I fix the carpal tunnels. Then I'll start stretching the ligaments. I’ll--”

A sort of thunder shook the room. The needle scraped across the record. There were shouts and screams. The thunder sounded again. The room tilted, and everything started sliding to one side. 

"No need to throw him overboard, I think," said Gogol, clutching the wall as Marins rolled past his feet. 

 

***

 

Anyone with half a brain knows you're not supposed to drink the ocean. Doesn't it make your tongue swell up and turn black and choke you? Gogol tried as hard as he could to talk them out of it. But Dona da Silva and Magdalena were the only ones who'd listen, and now there was only the three of them left. They'd thrown the last body over the side that morning, and they could still feel the sharks nosing around the sides of the boat, waiting for their next feeding. Very nice. Poor little Dona da Silva was curled up at the foot of the boat, her silver lame cape drawn up over her head.

Magdalena, who was supposed to be on watch for land, lay nodding in the bow. You could barely force your eyes open now, they were so dry. Gogol reached for her hand, and felt for her pulse. He took out his penknife, pulled up his sleeve and found a fat blue vein in the fold of his elbow that looked sufficient. He made the incision; the red puddled up. With an effort, he positioned himself so that Magdalena's lips met the crook of his arm. She wouldn't take it. Summoning all his strength, he forced her. She gave in, as always. Closing his eyes in satisfaction, he rested as she fed. 

 

***

 

The gray-haired, cadaverous man in purple silk sat on the edge of the bed. "Well, Dr. Lysenko," he said. "So you're back in the land of the living again." 

The purple man gave him a metal cylinder with a straw in it, also metallic. "Just a sip now," he said. "You don't want to take too much at first, you know. There's no hurry; we'll soon have you rehydrated again. 

"I'm afraid that aside from yourself, there are no proper doctors on this island. I'll just try to give you what aid I can, until the boat from the mainland arrives. I hope you don't mind, incidentally, I've taken the liberty of putting a tincture of laudanum in that drink of yours, to make you more comfortable." 

"You're an excellent host, sir," murmured Gogol. 

The purple man's lips parted in a sort of smile, revealing ecru teeth. "It's the strangest thing," he lisped. "When I saw you marooned on my beach like a baked beluga, I almost mistook you for someone else. A physician I made the acquaintance of some years ago in Stuttgart, at some symposium or other. I'll never forget his name, Gogol it was. Just like the fellow who wrote 'Dead Souls.' Of course he didn't have an eyepatch. But that's neither here nor there, I suppose you're wondering who's this man sitting on my bed. My name is Aleister Haddo, and this little island belongs to me. I do hope you won't have to hurry away when you've recovered; it would please me if you stayed on. It's so seldom the sea brings me visitors.

"So you're a survivor of the 'Carioca' tragedy! From what the radio says, there haven't been many others. Damn those German submarines! Oh! you're wondering about the ladies. They've pulled through splendidly, in fact I should tell them you've come round, so they'll stop praying for you. Have more water, Dr. Lysenko." 

"Actually, if you'd be so kind...may I have a glass of tea?"

"Certainly. I'll have them bring it up directly. And now, you'll excuse me, I'll go tell those ladies of yours that you're past your delirium." 

A silent, stiff black man brought the tea a few minutes later. Gogol selected a sugar cube, took it between his teeth, and embraced with all his being the nectar of the samovar. 

 

***

 

"What are all those strange fish, Mr. Haddo?" 

"Oh, I know what they are," interjected Magdalena. "Arothron stellatus, isn't it?"

"Close enough," said Haddo. "The Japanese call them fugu. They puff themselves up like that when you tease them. And if you're stupid enough to eat them--which, I'm sorry to say, some people do round these parts--you can die from it." 

"Why do you have so many of them, all hanging up like that? And what's in those jars?"

"Some preserved amphibians," said Haddo. "Fungus. Various varieties of worms." 

Dona da Silva covered her mouth, trembling.

"I could spend days and days in here," Magdalena said. 

"And you may. But now, you must see my sun chapel!"

"Sun chapel, did you say?" queried Dona da Silva, as he led them into a long, windowless hallway, lined with chairs along each wall, terminating in a massive, gated doorway of black wrought iron.

Haddo smiled, and beckoned them up to the grate. They peered into the darkness. Above them, they heard a mechanical whine and scraping, and a thin section of sunlight fell from above. The ceiling of the room behind the grate was apparently rigged to slide aside. It was a huge, bare, octagonal room, painted entirely black, except for some designs in white on the floorbarely visible, under a layer of dust.

"On fine nights, we can perform our devotions under the stars," Haddo observed. "Skyclad, as you might say." 

"Why not hold your services outside?" Magdalena asked. 

Haddo shrugged. "It's a question of esthetics. The local fauna find the sights and smells of our observances...rather attractive." 

"I understand." 

"Yes, it's really something to see. As a matter of fact," said Haddo, touching the mechanism that made the ceiling replace itself, "I've invited some coreligionists of mine to make the journey here, for our Candlemas celebration. Of course you'll be welcome to join us." 

"Candlemas! Oh, we can't stay that long!" said Dona da Silva, a touch of panic in her voice. "I've got to get back home!" 

"But, Dona da Silva, I can't offer you transportation from this island before then. My own yacht has been taken away to the mainland for repairs, and that vessel you came in is hardly seaworthy." 

"Can't you send for some sort of rescue ship'?" 

"I have tried, Dona da Silva. I've radioed Cuba, Martinique, even the Brazilian consulate. But they've all said we must wait for relief. Apparently all the available rescue boats are tied up searching for other survivors of the 'Carioca.' And of course, they're all wary of that submarine, if that's what it was. It may be lurking in these waters still, looking to cause more mischief."

"Then,” said Dona da Silva, biting her lip, “I suppose we must rely on your kindness, Mr. Haddo." 

"And you may do so with utmost confidence, I assure you, Dona da Silva."

Indeed, Haddo had seen to everything. There was, for instance, the matter of clothing. Haddo had generously opened his closets to the castaways, allowing them to avail themselves of his rather remarkable wardrobe, mostly items of his own mandarin design. Gogol, for instance, was just then in front of the mirror in his room, sizing himself up in a sort of black silk cassock which Magdalena had altered for him. He liked the effect, with the eye patch. Perhaps just a hint of lampblack around the eye, for dramatic emphasis...? 

There was a little rap-rap at the door. "Dr. Lysenko?" 

"Come in." 

Little Dona da Silva had made out the best of them in the matter of vestments. Haddo had found her a bias-cut sheath in glowing ivory satin, which fitted her perfectly, with slippers to match. "They belonged to somebody dear to me, once," he had told her. "Wear them in health, my poppet." 

Dona da Silva ran to Gogol, buried her face in his shoulder. "Ah, Dr. Lysenko!" she cried. "We must get out of here, right away!" 

"Why, what's wrong, child?"

"You can't believe how nasty that Mr. Haddo is! I think he's a witch! The way he's got his hair shaved in that funny sort of triangle pointing over his forehead, and the way he leers at me--ohh, and he's got fungus, and worms--"

"Worms?" said Gogol, raising an eyebrow. 

"Yes, big fat ones, jars and jars full of them! And he's got a horrible room that looks like something out of 'The Pit and the Pendulum!' He's going to do something unspeakable to us, I know it!" 

"Calm yourself, Dona da Silva. I really don't think there's any reason for us to fear Mr. Haddo. His ways may appear strange to you. But I can tell you myself, when a man becomes used to living all alone, he sometimes develops certain harmless eccentricities." 

Dona da Silva sank onto the edge of the bed. 

"People collect all sorts of unusual things," Gogol went on, sitting down at Magdalena's vanity table. "I once knew a man who kept a waxwork woman in his parlor." 

"You mean one of those statues, like at Madame Tussaud's?" 

"Yes, very lifelike. Beautifully proportioned. He used to have his housekeeper dress it, and brush out its hair. He even commissioned a dressmaker to make negligees for it. You see, he never had a real woman of his own. And so he spent his attentions on that waxwork--he treated it--as though it were his beloved." 

"You mean, he made love to it?"

Gogol shrugged. "It wasn't very practical for that purpose," he said. "The arms and legs kept falling off." 

Dona da Silva snickered. 

"Oh, what do you know about loneliness?" snapped Gogol. "How old are you, nineteen, twenty?" 

"Twenty-two, as a matter of fact. At least, I will be this spring."

"And pretty. And you have lots of hair on your head, besides. I suppose you lie in bed nights chuckling over all the men who've thrown themselves in the river for your sake." 

"Well. I suppose it's part of every girl's sentimental education, to break a few hearts."

"And you. Has your heart ever been broken?" 

Dona da Silva's expression became thoughtful. "Yes," she said. "The day I came back from convent school. When my father told me he'd promised me to General da Silva." 

She turned her fawnlike eyes to Gogol. "Oh, marriage is a terrible thing, isn't it?" 

Magdalena came in. "Dona da Silva was just telling me that our host is some sort of devil worshipper," Gogol said to her.

"Yes, I gathered as much myself," replied Magdalena, going to get a cigarette. "Apparently he's invited his coven to the island for some sort of Walpurgisnacht. Quite an elaborate festivity, it seems. He was showing me the ceremonial daggers they'll use."

"This is exciting," said Gogol. "I've heard of such things, but to see them doing it, that's something else." 

"Oh, I don't know. That sort of thing was fashionable on the Continent eight or nine years ago, but I found the Black Mass very infantile. It you want to have an orgy, why not be honest about it? You don't have to chant the Lord's Prayer backwards and drink cat's blood, and that nonsense." 

"Well, I think this is terrible, terrible," said Dona da Silva moistly. "I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to find Mr. Haddo's radio and call for help. We can't stay trapped on this island! Not with that man here, not with those people coming!

"That's another thing. How do we know he's really told anyone we're here? They may not be looking for us at all, they may think we're dead! What if Haddo's keeping us here for a purpose? What if he means to sacrifice us?" 

The two Lysenkos looked at her curiously. "What do you think, Magdalena?" asked Gogol. 

"About Haddo not telling the authorities? The thought occurred to me, we are rather vulnerable here. Maybe he's like that man in that story, who catches people so he can hunt them in the jungle like animals. It could be he intends to make us the subject of some nefarious experiment." 

Magdalena smiled around her cigarette. "Perhaps," she puffed, "he just wants a chance to get to know you better, Dona da Silva." 

Dona da Silva's lower lip quivered appealingly. 

"As for the business about sacrifice," Magdalena added, “we can set our minds at rest on that point. In my experience, black magicians are particular about whom they choose for that purpose. They only do it to virgins." 

Through the smoke, she leveled a sidelong look at Gogol, who gazed at her, rocking gently in his seat. 

"Then you don't think we're in any danger?" asked Dona da Silva. 

"Not from Haddo, no," said Magdalena. 

"Well," said Dona da Silva, rising, "I'll go dress for dinner. I suppose you think I'm silly, carrying on like this."

"Not in the least. Do carry on, Dona da Silva." 

Dona da Silva slipped out, and went next door to her room. From the other side of the wall she heard noises of an indescribable nature. 

"Oh, I wish I was back in Bahia!" she sighed. 

 

***

 

As the month progressed, they saw less and less of their host. Haddo begged them to excuse his neglect of them, saying that he was behind in completing his portion of a scholarly treatise that he and his colleague, the eminent anthropologist Dr. Vitus Vergerus, were preparing for publication. Haddo said that Vergerus had asked him to have the manuscript ready in time for his arrival on the island, so that he, Vergerus, could take it directly to a conference he would be attending in Lisbon. "The subject is, 'The Erotic Fetish Object in Shamanistic Tradition,'" said Haddo. "Now, make of that what you like! But while I'm at it you are certainly free to roam my home and savor whatever attracts your interest. Do whatever you will, that's the rule on my island. Just so long as you don't do it in the jungle and frighten the snakes." 

Haddo slept late into the day, and after supper, disappeared into his study or little laboratory. Most evenings, Gogol went with him, and often the women would hear them behind the doors, conversing and laughing late into the night. Dona da Silva and Magdalena, finding themselves all alone with the gaunt, silent, anxious-eyed serving men, usually spent the evenings up in their rooms, puzzling over some mildew-tinged volume they'd come across in Haddo's library, or listening to whatever weak signal they could find on the radio, or trying, with whatever improvised methods they could devise, to work the growing wildness out of one another's hair. 

Magdalena tried to keep Dona da Silva amused by telling her stories about the old days in Berlin, and some of the less shocking gossip she'd picked up during her residence in Hollywood. In turn, Dona da Silva told Magdalena all the sad little secrets of her heart. How her brother, a gentle and brilliant young artist whom she loved more than anyone on earth, had been sent into exile by her parents because of a scandal involving a boy he'd known at university. She wept after Magdalena had falteringly told her about how it had ended with her Victor, years ago, how she had been a widow, too. 

"I wouldn't have wished Horacio dead!" whispered Dona da Silva. "But if he were to stay down in the sea...!" 

When she had to marry the General, she'd been comforted with the prospect that at least that meant children. But after two fruitless years, she had consulted a specialist, who told her that because of the way her insides were constructed, it was extremely unlikely she would ever have babies. There was a possibility that they might be able to correct the defect with surgery. But poor Dona da Silva was terrified of going under the knife. 

"Well, you're to be envied, in a way, " said Magdalena. "To be your age, and to be able to love without worrying about repercussions! Well, if your husband is truly dead, that means you're your own woman now. You can go out and find a man that pleases you. And as for children, there are so many motherless little souls in this world who'd be glad of you. 

"They say you feel more love if the child looks like you and all of that. But if you'd ever gone through a confinement yourself, you wouldn't be so impressed. If you could just go to some nursery and pick out a baby, what's the difference? Being a mother isn't something that's done with the womb and the breast. It's the lips that kiss, and the heart that aches, that's what makes mother love." 

Gogol was fascinated by the arcane intricacies of Haddo's religious hermeneutics, especially their pharmacological aspects. He spent many hours in the worm room, studying the specimens, and rereading the notes he'd taken in the previous night's discussion with Haddo. Whenever Dona da Silva came in to bring him a glass of tea or to ask him it he wouldn't like to stop and eat something, he barely responded, or testily chased her away. "He's like a good little schoolboy getting ready for examinations," she told Magdalena. 

Magdalena thought: Perhaps this is the start of a new line of interest for him. Tropical medicine? Primitive healing practices? She knew how frustrated he was, with that monstrous great scientific intellect of his, knowing how the world screamed to be healed, and how impotent he felt, to be shut away like this. She remembered Christmas day, sitting in that hotel room, Gogol at her feet, the joint of his forefinger between his mute lips, as they listened to those crushing, endless orations by that mad werewolf on the radio. She'd been trying to work the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, not that easy, as her Spanish was far from perfect. Gogol had reached up, taken her pencil, and scrawled in the margin: Magdalena, the world is ending, what can we do? 

 

***

 

On the day that the boat chartered by Haddo's friends was due to arrive, Dona da Silva got up before dawn. As soon as it was light enough to find her way through the jungle path, she went up to the tallest hill on the island, behind Haddo's estate, and leaned against a tree, like Butterfly, scanning the horizon. How she cried when she saw the lovely bright flag of her own nation coming towards her, through the mist. And later, standing on the deck next to Haddo, she wept again, to see it was a friend: the "Orfeo," a yacht belonging to one of the families she'd known all her life. Apparently Dr. Vergerus had had to send all the way to Bahia for a boat, since, because of the war emergency, the United States government had commandeered all available seaworthy vessels. 

Dr. Vergerus was frightening and thrilling beyond even Dona da Silva's expectations of him. Dark and robust, with little cruel sapphire eyes and a meaning red smile, he had reached that age when a handsome man still has all his fineness about him, with a delicious hint of decay just settling in. He lowered his lips over her hand with the same suggestive coolness with which he pressed, in both his hands, the bony fingers proffered him by Haddo. Are they...? she wondered, witnessing the devouring wise glances the two men ran over one another. She thought the same thing as Vergerus handed over each emerging newcomer that stepped off the boat to the appreciative Haddo. How elegant they were, these strangers. And how alike, not in appearance, but in their expressions and carriage, how very much their attitudes matched that of Vergerus, and Haddo too. Their faces seemed so large; how to explain it? something about their narrowed, sensual eyes, and their scarlet smiles, the way their chins tilted slightly upwards. They all seemed to move forwards from the hips, easily, almost with a hint of obscenity. But they all took no particular notice of her, not in a way, at least, that suggested there was any presupposition amongst them that she was a potential object of use to them. This was a sort of letdown. Not that she had actually hoped that they'd do to her what she had imagined they might. But now that she saw what these Satanists really were, just a pack of wealthy eccentrics on holiday, she felt suddenly lonely. She longed more fiercely for her family and friends, and wished these silly perverts really were witches like in storybooks, who could give her some flying ointment to whoosh her back home instantly. She felt, as never before, the horrible distance between here and home. She was so tired of these weird people! 

"Will we make thirteen this time?" Vergerus asked. 

"Fortunately, yes," Haddo replied. "That is, if my other honored guests choose to join us as communicants. 

"Not ... this lady," Haddo gently added, as Vergerus turned expectantly to Dona da Silva. "She is steadfastly of the Roman persuasion. A good lady," he said emphatically. 

"How enchanting," said Vergerus, plainly disenchanted. 

A slender dark woman with eyes like a china doll's stepped forward. "Aleister," beamed Dr. Vergerus, "this is our newest initiate." 

"Well, introductions would be superfluous in this case," purred Haddo, hovering raptly over her gloved hand. "All the world knows what an extraordinary artist you are, Madame Orlac. Our greatest lady of the minatory theatre. Welcome to my island. It is yours. We are all yours." 

"Mr. Haddo, I'm...overwhelmed."

"Modesty becomes you, dear lady. I venture to say I hope immodesty does as well. Now! Let's get out of this sun before it spoils our complexions." 

Now, you are a lady who's suffered much. In fact, you're famous for it. You've been manacled in dungeons, had hot irons pressed into your skin. You've been shut up in that mummy case with the spikes inside, you've had your head chopped off, been burned at the stake, been choked and smothered. That was all on the stage. In films, you've suffered less explicit torments, none of them fatal, but every one enough to send a normal woman to the psychoanalyst's couch for the rest of her life. Again, these are the agonies you've endured for the delectation of the paying public, that have made you a mascot in every Hellfire Club in the world, and the joy of tens of thousands of connoisseurs of simulated horror. You've made a respectable living from your career as a professional victim. 

Now, as to your private horror show. You'll find no cheap analogies forthcoming here between the player torturers who've strung you up, and the cruel forces that, in real life, have made you shiver and weep and rage. Let's just say you've seen the worst, dark Hollywood Aphrodite in furs, your beauty deepened by time and the sorrows you've endured, no longer tender to hands that would hurt you, but more defined, the exquisite skull beneath the translucent skin more breathtakingly apparent. And the dark, humid green thickets of this island hold no dread for you. You've been rather looking forward to this. And then your host, who looks so like dear Boris you can barely keep your countenance, hands you over the threshold of his plantation manse, to meet his other house guests And for a cold moment, you feel the manacles snap round your wrists again. 

Here, unmistakably, is the man who murdered your father-in-law, and made a violently depressed madman out of your husband, and tried to throttle you in a necrophilic passion, not to list the other crimes he did that nearly drove you to join poor Stephen in his asylum cage. And here is the woman who once fed you to a pool of hungry sea monsters. You know what the scriptwriters and directors would have you do now, at such an encounter. The shriek, the flutter of eyelids. The sinking, simulated deadfall, so graceful and artless that your audience never sees the strenuous effort involved, to slump and crumple in what seems like a frail, pretty way, just so, landing with your most advantageous profile towards the camera. But the reaction your body and brain have to this moment is the very opposite of syncope. Adrenaline sears you; your eyes smart with the clarity of what you're seeing. This is like a first night's panic. And the last thing you should do, in such a case, is to let them see you trembling.

My God, look at them, clutching each other, staring--they're frightened of you, Yvonne. Come to think of it, they should be. There are ten of your brethren of the Order, all together, in this room. You're all sworn to avenge one another, aren't you? if you were to put the sign on these two, in front of all your friends, with their blood already racing because of the frolic that's coming, these two would be dead, that's it. You would sup on their roasted thighs tonight. You would sip wine from their craniums at your love feast. But there is mercy in your heart for them. The Lord Satan forgive you.

"How do you do," you say, extending your hand. You are an actress, technically superb, and here's proof. Your hand is not shaking. 

 

***

 

"Oh, Doctor," said Haddo, with a voluptuous groan. He knelt by the side of the crate, laid his slender hands on it. "Let me see!" 

Vergerus loosened the slats with his penknife, undid the packing that had protected the metal tank and its contents. Haddo paddled the heels of his palms against his thighs in excitement. "Oh, look at him!" he cried. 

In the green murk of the water, moving slowly, sullen from lack of space to exercise, and no doubt from oxygen deprivation. was a great, soft-looking brown fish, mottled with pale spots, its fringed fins striking out with sudden muscular undulations. "This is the greatest moment of my life," breathed Haddo. "I have seen a living vertebrate of the Mesozoic era. Latimeria chalumnae. Perfect specimen. Wherever did you find him, Vergerus?”

"Off the coast of Madagascar. Caution! he can tear your hand off, Haddo."

"Oh, he won't hurt me," replied Haddo, dipping his fingers in to stroke the thing along its broad back. "I'm Daddy, aren't I, darling? And they thought you were extinct, dead and fossilized. Like some thought of me, once. We'll show them we're not so easy to get rid of as they think!" 

 

***

 

By a mapping of placec ards that must have pleased Satan himself, Yvonne found herself seated at dinner that evening with Haddo at her left side, and Gogol--excuse me, Lysenko--on her right. 

"I didn't know Haddo was such an expert necromancer," she said in an undertone. "Have you really come back from the dead, Gogol?" 

"For the time being, at least." 

"I...suppose I shouldn't feel quite so taken aback by this...after all that's happened before, I mean. Wong told us you'd died back at Hollylawn. I guess he's not as good a doctor as I'd thought." 

"No, it's true. I was dead, Lily killed me." 

"Lily!”

"It wasn't her fault. It was the feet I'd grafted onto her made her do it. Oh, you didn't know about that, did you. Well. You remember those pitiful bound feet she used to have. I gave her new ones. And then they took on a life of their own, those feet, they trampled me to death. Just like those hands I gave your husband, that stabbed me in the back. I tell you, I don't do transplant operations any more. 

"I suppose," he said, "poor Lily's gone crazy now, just the way your husband did." 

"No, actually, she's been quite sane and happy, ever since you di--you know, since you left. She has three children now. They live in Hawaii, Wong's started his own private clinic there. Following in your footsteps." 

"I always knew he could succeed. Ambition and diligence go a long ways to make up for the lack of pure genius. Anyway, I trained him." 

One of the silent black men in crimson uniforms came by to refill their wine glasses. "He looks like a zombie!" Yvonne whispered.

"Oh, they all are," Gogol nodded. "Haddo says Madame Laveau makes them specially for him."

"And--" Yvonne ventured--"if what you've told me is true--you're a zombie too, Doctor."

"Oh, no, Yvonne, I'm far luckier than these poor devils. You see, none of these men has ever actually been dead, the way I have. They've only been poisoned and beaten and brainwashed into thinking they've died; that's why they've got no will of their own. You don't have to kill a person physically to make him your slave. You simply murder his soul."

"I see. Just the way you did it with Stephen."

"Precisely, said Gogol, hanging his head. 

"Oh, Gogol. Are you really married to that terrible woman?"

Gogol glanced at Magdalena, who was staring stilettos at them from the other end of the table. 

"Life has become awfully complicated, hasn't it, Yvonne?" he muttered. 

 

***

 

"Please, ladies! Don't stop dancing on my account." 

"Dr. Vergerus! Why, why aren't you off with the other men?" 

"And why would I wish to segregate myself like that?" 

"Oh, I don't know, isn't that what gentlemen always do after dinner, shut themselves up with their brandy and cigars?" 

"My dear Dona da Silva, a cigar is only a smoke, but a woman.... What was that charming step you were doing just now? Is that some new dance you young people invented?" 

"Oh, it's the Bahia Rhumba. I was just teaching it to Madame Orlac and Madame Laveau." 

"You carry it off so well, all of you. Might I admit myself to your dancing academy?" 

"Dr. Vergerus, I...oh, I....”

"You know, I think I'll slip off for a cigar, myself," said Mme. Laveau. "Care to join me, Madame?" 

Yvonne demurred. "Actually," she said, "there's a bit of business I'd like to take care of, before the rest of the gentlemen come back. Oh, Baroness." 

Magdalena flinched, nearly setting her eyebrow alight with the flame of her cigarette lighter. 

"Or what should I call you?" asked Yvonne calmly, crossing the darkened room. "Madame Lysenko, isn't that what Haddo told me you were? 

"I was hoping I'd be able to corner you somewhere alone, so I could talk to you," she said, leaning a slender forearm on the mantlepiece, reaching for Haddo's cigarette box with the other hand. "There's no use in you running away from me all weekend. I swear I won't hurt you." 

Gracefully, she knelt, leaning over the fender to light her cigarette from the blazing logs. Magdalena gasped. "Oh, I'm not afraid of fires!" Yvonne laughed, noticing her reaction. "No true Satanist is. Fire is very playful, when you get to know it. It doesn't just burn; it can lick and tickle, too. 

"Haddo said something about your washing up on shore here after the shipwreck. Is that true, Baroness?" 

Magdalena nodded.

"Well, I'm sorry that had to happen to you," said Yvonne, sipping the cigarette smoke tensely. "I lost some friends on the 'Carioca', good people. No one deserves to die that way, well, few do. But as we say, so mote it be. 

"I don't know if you've heard my happy news. Stephen's with me now. Well, not completely; he's in a sanitarium back in California. It was all Ernst Giese's doing--isn't he the dearest man! He persuaded the authorities to let Stephen come to America so that he could treat him here; he even went over to France himself to go get him. And not a minute too soon, either. They got back three days before the Nazis marched into Paris. 

"Anyway, Stephen's improved so much under Ernst's care. I think he understands now that all those fears he had about his hands being controlled by some homicidal ghost were just fantasy. He knows now he didn't kill his stepfather, that's what's important. That's the kind of man he's always been, so tender, he couldn't live with the thought that he'd harmed another person out of anger or selfishness.

"That wasn't meant as a snide remark at you, Baroness. Whatever you think. You see, I've been in treatment with Ernst, myself, he's been my doctor as well as my friend. And he explained to me the circumstances behind what happened between you and me that night, that night you tried to kill me. It was a simple crime of passion. Well. I know what passion is; after all, I am Parisienne. I understand what made Gogol do such desperate things to try to get me, far better than Gogol himself ever could. 

"Gogol told me something strange at supper, Madame. About having been clinically dead, and then brought back to life. Is that true?" 

"Yes.”

"Tell me, then. Has Gogol been at all altered by this experience? What I mean to say is have you noticed anything in what he says, or how he behaves, that seems in any way...abnormal?"

"I suppose he's just the same as he always was," said Magdalena, uncertainly. "Why do you ask?" 

Yvonne threw her exhausted cigarette into the fire, sat down beside Magdalena. "Baroness, I don't believe in obligations or favors, and you're surely too bright a woman to submit to any kind of sentimental blackmail. But you must be aware that I've shown extreme forbearance in my comportment towards you and the Doctor. I might have given you away; I didn't, and I don't intend to. Now, you may take that as a surety that I've decided to let bygones be bygones, that I've forgiven you and Gogol for your crimes against me and Stephen. I would put it another way: I see no reason why I should turn you in to the police. I have no faith in the criminal justice system, after what it did to Stephen. Well, to generalize," she shrugged, "I simply have no faith." 

 

***

 

"You are looking away from me, Dona da Silva. Does the sight of me displease you?" 

"Oh, no, Doctor Vergerus. Very much the opposite. It's just that the way you look at me, I--" 

"Don't be afraid, dear child. Look, look in my eyes. Deeply. There. Am I so terrible?" 

"Oh, no. . . ." 

The gramophone record ran out, the needle lifted, the turntable slowed and froze. Still Dona da Silva moved, her hand clenched in his, her hips undulating under his guidance. Until at last Vergerus pulled away, and smiled.

"Well, then, have I mastered the Bahia Rhumba?" he said, pressing a dry, hot kiss onto the back of her hand. 

"Huhuhuh," sighed Dona da Silva, only the whites of her fluttering eyes showing. 

"Now that everyone else has left us," said Vergerus, glancing around, "I think it's time to give ourselves a little treat. Come, Dona da Silva." 

He beckoned her on, through corridors and doorways he seemed much more familiar with than she was, till they reached a dusty corner that must have been somewhere in Haddo's library; it was hard to see anything, it was so dark. Taking her chilly fingers in one hand, Vergerus felt along the paneling with the other. The room shuddered gently to the oneiric strains of Haddo's pipe organ; it must be Dr. Lysenko serenading the guests. A panel sprung open; they entered a musty, walled-in passage that led to a stair that went almost straight up, that led through another door to--"My room," said Vergerus. 

The floor beneath her rumbled with the weird pipings of the organ, like an unearthly amplification of Lysenko's own voice. A queer violet light suffused the room; the furnishings were all white, and therefore purple, with a rich, furlike carpet that seemed to make you trip with every step. To make your eyes dim, and make you want to sink, to give up every resistance, thought Dona da Silva sleepily, that's what this room is for. 

"Sit, sit!" urged Vergerus, motioning her onto the bed--there was no chair. Dona da Silva leaned tremulously in a corner. Vergerus nodded to himself, as if considering his next move. He reached into a silver ice bucket, took out a small, bulbous, green-tinged bottle. "Coca?" he queried, leering. 

 

***

 

"And where did it go, that simple, childlike faith of mine?" Yvonne continued. "I'm not sure, but I noticed I'd lost it after that night you threw me into that tank full of lampreys. I have to compliment you on that, you couldn't have come up with a more miserable way to torture me. To hang there in that water, knowing that if I sank I'd drown, and feeling my life drain away every second I struggled to breathe. You wouldn't know how much it hurts to have one of those wretches tearing into your skin. To have them all over! pumping and thumping their tails so it nearly rips the muscles off your bones. If I ever need to do in an enemy, that's the way I'll do it, the way you did to me. Only maybe I'll throw in a couple of electric eels, or jellyfish. Little ones that sting but not enough to make you stop hurting. 

"Anyway. There I was, treading water, treading lampreys, in all my pain, and oh, I cried that cry, why hast thou forsaken me. And of course I'll never know why he did, because he never bothered To tell me. 

"But God's silence at that moment served me a purpose: it gave me time to think. How, I thought, could I go on worshipping a God who has such little regard for human life? 

"It wasn't long after I'd recovered from the skin grafts--you know, it's funny," Yvonne mused. "Wong said he used Gogol's skin, to patch me up after the lamprey bites. I wonder if that means I'm connected with him? The way Stephen was with Rollo the knife thrower's hands, or Lily was with her new feet. But as I was saying. It was soon after I'd gone back to work that I met Dr. Vergerus at Lionel Atwill's. He discussed some of his philosophies with me, and the next day he sent me one of his books. Well, it floored me; he'd been thinking the same things I'd been thinking, only he'd followed them through to their farthest conclusions, and gone beyond that to weave an entire life's view out of them. I wrote him a letter just pouring out everything I felt, telling him what it meant to me to have discovered him as a teacher, and begging him not to leave the job unfinished, to take me in hand and lead me where I needed to go. So he invited me up to San Francisco, to one of his meetings. I went there every moon after that. And last month I became an initiate. The whole thing: the bath of salt, the knife at the breast, the vows. I'm one of them now. I guess you know that. I regret nothing, I'm happy with my decision. But it's strange this way, in a way I could never explain to you. It feels like my skeleton's been turned to steel, and I'm not used to that feeling. Not used to the strength, that inward coldness. 

"In the old days, I never would have dared to face you like this. But now I ask you, not as an extortionist, or as victim to penitent, but just as one self-interested woman to another, if you'll just listen to a proposition I'd like to make to you. What I'd like you to do, Baroness, is to lend me your husband. 

"About a month ago, Ernst wrote me a letter about Stephen's progress. I remember so clearly what it was he said, he said, 'There is only so much I can do for him, or that he can do for himself. Stephen has recaptured his soul, that was so cruelly taken away from him. But he can never get back his hands, and so he must mourn them the rest of his days.' You see what he means? Stephen can use the hands he has; he can do anything an ordinary person can with ordinary hands. He can even play the piano. But he cannot express himself through them. They simply weren't made for that; they could never be the conduits of art and beauty that his old hands were. This has broken his heart so badly it cannot heal, and he can never come back to me. UNLESS. Unless there is some way that those hands he has could be made to serve him the way his old ones did. 

"Once, when everyone told me Stephen's hands were lost and there was nothing to be done, I went to your husband and begged him to help me. And he did. Now I come to you again, to ask you to intercede for me. I want you to ask Gogol to try again with Stephen. I want him to make another miracle, like he did before. Not for my sake. Not for Stephen's. For the sake of Art. For the art of Stephen Orlac. And the art of Gogol. For the knife and the piano. I'll pay all his expenses. I'll make sure he's protected from every possible danger. And, Madame Baroness. If you prefer, I won't say anything to him about this. It can be your feminine wiles that persuade him this time, not mine. I respect your privilege in that respect. Speaking as one loving wife to another." 

"You can do your own persuading," Magdalena muttered. "Gogol is his own man as far as I'm concerned." 

"Very well. Now kiss me, Madame. And let that be the seal to our agreement."

Magdalena flushed like a child; Yvonne sat unmoving, barely blinking. "Are you willing?" the Frenchwoman murmured. Magdalena lowered her head, raised it. Shut her eyes as the vermilion lips parted, and came resolutely to hers.

 

***

 

"I'm not putting on that robe," said Dona da Silva, throwing it down. "I'm not having anything to do with this." 

"As you wish. In that case," said Magdalena, stepping out of her panties and setting down her cigarette, "I think I'll wear your robe instead. It's prettier than mine." 

"You're not going down there!"

"Of course I am. I've got to keep an eye on Lysenko. People get up to some crazy things during Black Masses, I'll tell you." 

"You can't leave me alone!"

"Well, then, come with me."

"Oh, I couldn't, I couldn't! I'm a Christian woman!" 

"So am I. I think God will forgive us if we worship Baphomet, just for an hour or so. We'll go to confession as soon as we get back to the mainland. Come on, put on that robe. You can leave your clothes on under it, they won't care. Of course they might get a little torn, once things get started."

Tremulously, Dona da Silva followed Magdalena down the stairs and through the passageway to the great black hall. The others were waiting for them, already seated in the chairs that were ranged along the walls. "But where's Lysenko--have you seen him?" Magdalena asked Vergerus. 

"Oh, he'll be coming," he smirked.

A gong was struck several times. The lights went out. An earthy smell arose, like hashish mingled with patchouli. They heard the groan of iron, and felt a rush of air as the gate swung open. An iridescent light sprang up in the anteroom. As the celebrants filed in, they heard the sounds of the jungle night, and saw the stars pulsing above them. At the far end of the room was a black catafalque. On it a naked young brown-skinned woman lay artfully sprawled, her long hair twisted into fat, glossy snakes. At her head and feet stood two black candles. A skull sat next to her right hip. On her left lay an array of jeweled knives, a broadsword, a chalice, and some sinister-looking items made of black leather and metal. From behind the velvet curtain, which hung behind the catafalque, there was a hiss of a phonograph needle. Music filled the room; it was the Glenn Miller Orchestra playing "Moonlight Serenade." There was a flash of light and smoke; and like a stage genie, Haddo appeared, wearing a black dressing gown embossed with golden cabalistic symbols. "Greetings, friends," he intoned. 

He raised his hands with a flourish. "What is the law?" he said. 

"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law," the celebrants chanted in unison.

"Yeeeeessssss," said Haddo, with a deepening grin. 

In a resonant baritone, Haddo began reciting the Roman Catholic liturgy backwards, in Latin. Magdalena gamely joined in the responses on cue, her arm tucked reassuringly round Dona da Silva's waist as she crossed herself the wrong way round with her other hand, in synchrony with the others. Nothing that bad seemed to be happening yet, really, except for the blasphemy. Then Haddo turned and reached back behind the curtain. There was a series of piercing animal shrieks; Haddo emerged again, shaking a terrified spider monkey in his upraised fist. With the other hand, he picked up a knife, and positioned the monkey's suspended head over the chalice. "NO!" screeched Dona da Silva.

Dropping his priestly mien for a minute, Haddo directed a reproachful look at his interrupter. "Dona da Silva, really, now," he said. "You're destroying the ambience." 

"No, I won't let you do it!" she cried, rushing to him. "You let that little monkey go, now!" 

"I suppose you're going to offer to take his place," said Haddo testily. 

"Oh, you cruel, wicked man!" sobbed Dona da Silva. "Let him go, let him go!" 

Haddo turned to the assembly. "Should I let him go?"

The celebrants snorted contemptuously. "It's probably got rabies, anyway," said Signor Ligotti. 

"All right, here," said Haddo, thrusting the monkey at Dona da Silva. She caught it up to her bosom, then screamed as it bit her; she dropped it, and it scampered away through the gate, as the others laughed. Haddo huffed in disgust, leaned into the curtains again, as the nude altarpiece giggled. "There's some antiseptic back there," he said, to someone behind the drapes. "Do you see it? Yes, that's it. Here," he said, handing the bottle over to Dona da Silva. "I'll recommend you for a commendation from the SPCA." 

He cleared his throat, shook out his sleeves, and prepared to recommence. The crowd settled down. Haddo immediately broke out of character again. "Oh, but now we don't have anything to drink!" he said petulantly. 

"We'll have to substitute," said Vergerus.

"What?" said Mr. Ouboudi. 

"You know what," said Haddo, handing him the chalice. The others groaned, as Ouboudi resignedly started gathering up his robe. Dona da Silva stared, with round-eyed appallment, as the contents of Ouboudi's bladder were decanted into the cup.

Haddo caught the steaming vessel up and wafted it, like a snifter of brandy. "A hearty vintage, Mr. Ouboudi," he pronounced. He began to make the blessing motions over it. 

The gong rang again. The curtains parted. A diminutive figure stepped forward. It was Gogol. He was naked, except for his eye patch, and a pair of ibex antlers affixed with a harness to his head. He carried a silver platter, heaped with what looked like Russian tea cakes. Reverently, with quick movements, he set out the cakes, one by one, along the supine body of the altar lady. 

Haddo cast his reverse benediction over the cakes. Then, leaning forward, using his teeth, he picked up a cake that was perched on the mons veneris of the lady. Chewing it with exaggeration, he then took a quick draught from the chalice. Filing in queue, the celebrants came forward, approaching the altar one by one. "You're not going to do it, are you?" Dona da Silva whispered.

Not me, are you crazy?" Magdalena whispered back. "You remember those worms? That's probably what's in those little cakes!" 

"How can they poison themselves like this?" 

"Oh, they'll be all right. Urine's sterile, you know. I suppose worms aren't any worse for you than what's in sausages."

"What's that thing on Dr. Lysenko's head?"

"It's meant to represent the horned god. It would appear that Lysenko's been chosen as Lucifer's stand-in tonight." 

The communion was over now; the altar looked up expectantly at Haddo, brushing the sugar out of her pubic hair. Haddo held up his hands for silence. The gong sounded again. The lights dimmed; there was only the glow of the candles now. Haddo stepped back from the altar, and pulled back the curtains, revealing another curtain of transparent black mesh. A searing red light clicked on behind the curtain, revealing the form of a naked white female, her head draped in a red silken veil. "I love thee! I love thee!" she sang, in a high, shrill voice. 

"That's the High Priestess!" whispered Magdalena.

"Thou art my Heaven! Thou art my Garden of Delight! Thou art my Fountain of Life! I love thee! I love thee!" 

Gogol approached the altar, and picked up a small leather cat o'nine tails.

"Thou art my slave and my master!" the Priestess cried. "Thou art the Rod that rules me! Thou art the Blade that martyrs me to Baphomet! Thou art the Seed that presseth into me, and the Scythe that reaps my bounty! I LOVE THEE!" she shrieked, striking both breasts with the flat of her hand.

Gogol struck himself hard with the scourge, threw back his head and yelled, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH! 

"I LOVE THEE!" he roared. "I LOVE THEE! THOU ART MY HEAVEN THOU ART MY GARDEN OF DELIGHT THOU ART MY RIVER OF DEATH I LOVE THEEEEEE! I LOVE THEEEEEEE!" 

"He does it so much better than she does," Magdalena murmured. 

"THOU ART MY SLAVE AND MY MISTRESS! THOU ART THE CHASM THAT CONSUMES ME! THOU ART THE CHARIOT THAT I RIDE TO BAPHOMET! THOU ART THE EARTH THAT I PLANT IN AND THOU ART THE GULLET THAT SWALLOWS MY BOUNTY! I LOVE THEE! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH! I LOVE THEE!" 

Whacking himself and bellowing with lung-shattering ferocity, Gogol screamed "I LOVE THEE!" and the Priestess shouted back "I LOVE THEE!" in an accelerating duet of avowals and flagellation. Then it stopped. Gogol and the Priestess stood panting heavily, drenched in perspiration. The phonograph needle sizzled again. It was the Coleman Hawkins version of "Body and Soul." Gogol set down his scourge. The Priestess pulled the curtains aside for him, then tugged them closed again, as he took his place beside her. They turned to face one another. Gravely, he reached over and pulled the veil from her head, revealing Yvonne. Embracing, they sank down together. Eagerly, the celebrants crowded forward to watch. Except Magdalena and Dona da Silva, who stayed where they were. 

Dona da Silva looked up at Magdalena, saw her shaking with emotion, the tears running down her cheeks. "You knew this was going to happen! Why don't you stop them?" Dona da Silva asked. Magdalena shook her head. 

"But he's your husband!" 

"No, he isn't."

"You mean, you're not married?" 

"Noho! "

"Ohhh," said Dona da Silva regretfully. "Then I could have had him."

She went over to the others and peered round, trying to get a look. Vergerus, eyes sparkling, moved up behind her, closing his hands round her shoulders. Magdalena sank onto the dirty floor, and closed her eyes. 

"What's the matter?" someone said, from behind the altar. 

"Uh oh!”

"Come on, don't stop!" 

"Give him a hand, Yvonne!"

"Try some cocaine. Has anybody got some?" 

"Use one of your horns, Lysenko!" 

"Oh, for pity's sake!" exclaimed Haddo. "What's happening there?"

"Not much!" 

"Oh, what a comedy of errors this night has been!" said Haddo, going behind the curtains. "Look, it's all right, Lysenko. Everyone knows about first night nerves. Give me the horns, I'll finish. All right, everybody out! Start that record over again." 

Magdalena gathered herself up wearily. She leaned against the gate a moment to steady herself, then went out into the hall. She heard a chattering in the darkness. The little spider monkey scuttled out and stared at her. She went back in, unnoticed, and snatched one of the cakes off the floor, then went back. She crouched down, set the cake in front of her. It took several minutes, but the monkey took the bait. She pounced and caught it in the folds of her robe. Clutching the struggling creature, she carried it through the corridors, out onto the veranda, and released it. It fell, dazed, then skittered away. 

She was making her way towards the staircase when she saw Gogol. He was in his black cassock again. "Where are you going?" he said. 

"To bed, Dr. Gogol. I've had enough sex magick for tonight." 

"Did you like my part of the ceremony?" 

She paused, and sighed. "Well spoken, Gogol. You should be proud of yourself. I suppose Haddo engineered all of this from the beginning. Yvonne being here; even the submarine. He's quite a sorcerer. It's ironic, with all his powers, he couldn't manage a simple levitation. Good night, Gogol." 

"Wait, Magdalena. You're not angry with me?" 

"Not with you, Gogol. Myself. God in Heaven, what a wretched emotion jealousy is." 

They rested mournfully on the steps. Gogol leaned his cheek on her knee. 

"I'm sorry your ceremony didn't come off," she said. 

"Magdalena. Come back with me to the orgy. Please? Let's just watch it at least." 

"Dr. Gogol, I'm no voyeur." 

"Oh, do come with me. We'll go solemnly together, like Dante and Virgil, descending through hell. I promise," he said, "I won't do anything you don't tell me to do." 

Thoughtfully, she slid a finger under the elastic band of his eyepatch. "Oh my beloved," she said. "This is all a new game to you. And fortunately for you, your season for playing is much longer than mine. If I'd started as late as you did, I'd be in tragic shape." 

She gave the elastic a snap.

"Go if you must, and with my blessing. You can tell me all your adventures in the morning. Just don't wake me when you come in, please!" 

There are times and conditions of life, she thought, as she went up the stairs, when the greatest pleasure of life is to be found in a bed. That night she took her sleep greedily, and woke up sated and replete with contentment. 

Then Gogol came in, not a bit worse for wear after his late night, quite cheerful in fact, with a laden tray. Suddenly she felt queasy. "Oh, no, please take it away," she gasped. 

"No fear, Magdalena. I assure you absolutely that the victuals on this tray don't have any worms or urea in them. I prepared them myself. Magdalena, you really must eat to keep your strength up. I've noticed you haven't been taking anything at all in the mornings lately. Now why is that? Here, try some of this mango. A little overripe, perhaps. No? A little poi, then?" 

She ran for the watercloset. He followed close after. Smiling, he held her head for her. 

 

**

 

"As soon as this boat reaches the mainland," said Vergerus, "I must go to catch my plane to Lisbon. While you will take the next boat to Brazil. I feel pain at that Dona da Silva. Will we ever meet again? I want to know. Give me your hand." He traced the creases of her palm with his finger. 

"I see what lies before you, I see what lies behind. I see where you are now, it's...interesting. There are two men who hold you in their power now, Dona da Silva." 

Uncertainly, Dona da Silva gazed at the spot on her palm that Vergerus caressed, indicatively, with his thumb. 

"That line, that broken one, that's the weaker man. He's over and done with now, he won't be any trouble to you any more. But that other one, he's quite a caution. I don't think you realize what danger you're in, dallying with that sort of creature! Still, if you're a good girl and mind how you play with him, you should be fortunate enough to lose him at last, say, before eight phases of the moon have passed? I do hope," he murmured, drawing closer, "that when that time comes, you will think of Vergerus. As he will surely be thinking of you." 

 

***

 

It happened every time, didn't it? that horrid, burning cold in her bladder, shrieking to be squeezed out. But you couldn't, no matter how you strained; you could barely sit, it was worse when you lay down, and of course sleep was impossible with that weeping little organ grinding away inside you. Joys of motherhood! 

Gogol knew for certain now; he'd forced her down and given her a thorough palpating, not a pleasant sensation in her pain-tensed state. "Oh, yesss," he'd grinned, "the changes in the cervix; unmistakable." How he gloated away! 

"It's not yours, couldn't be," she told him.

"Well, then, whose, then?" 

"Fritz, of course." 

"Impossible." 

"It's perfectly possible." 

"Preposterous." 

"It must be his," she said stonily. "Otherwise I won't have it. Not the child of a dead man."

"WHAT did you say?" He landed joltingly beside her. "You call ME a dead man? A DEAD MAN? Is THIS the heart of a dead man? Is THIS, is THIS what you call a dead man? Listen to me. I have died twice already, Magdalena. Would you kill me yet again? Would you deny my son to me? By everything that's right, you are my wife. Not his. And this--this is mine! Would you betray me now, would you really abandon me like that? Magdalena, you couldn't do it. Think of the three of us, you and me and our child, together forever. We'd never die. As long as we had a chemical bath and an electrical wire we could never be parted. Think of that! I!" he whispered. "A family man!"

 

***

 

There was a band playing as the "Orfeo" came into port at Martinique. That wasn't exactly unexpected, with a military widow on board. How funny, though, that they weren't playing some National Anthem or Sousa march at this moment of disembarking, but "Begin the Beguine.” Although that happened to be her favorite song in this world. 

Then she saw them down in the crowd. The little blond head. And the bigger silver one. Fritz had been looking to catch her eye; now he nodded and raised his hand, and grasped Ivan's shoulders to get his attention, and pointed her out to him. 

Gogol was distracted by the newsmen crowding around them as they disembarked. Dona da Silva was hanging on his arm chattering away like a silly parrot and the camera flashes kept going off in their faces. Magdalena knew this was her chance. She waited until they were down the gangplank, then quickly took a right turn straight into the flashing cameras and plunged like a quarterback through the crowd of gawkers until she reached Fritz and Ivan. Fritz seized her, then, hoisting up Ivan in one arm and grasping her tightly in the other, forced them through the mass of bodies to the other side of the platform. "That's better!" he said. 

With all the force in his body, he crushed her to him; she felt him trembling. She felt little Ivan's arms close round her neck and Fritz's, pressing them even closer together, pressing his soft sweet little face into theirs. "We're awfully glad to see Mamma again, aren't we?" Fritz whispered. 

They let go; joined hands, and started off towards the taxi stand as fast as their feet could carry them. "I assume there's no luggage?" Fritz said.

"Only what I've got here. Just things Mr. Haddo lent us for the trip." 

"I intend to repay Mr. Haddo for everything he's done for you. Though how I can possibly recompense him I don't know." 

She became aware of footsteps, an angry, panting presence behind her. A little hand caught and tugged at the back of her blouse, oh God! 

"Dr. Gogol," said Fritz casually, firmly pulling her alongside him as he raced along without breaking stride. "I thought you must be here somewhere. Did you manage to keep the press photographers from taking your picture?" 

"It was unavoidable, I'm afraid," spat Gogol, trotting furiously to keep pace with him. 

"Well, take heart! I don't think anyone'd recognize you. You've changed your appearance since last time I'd seen you. You could really start a new fashion, with those black silk pyjamas of yours."

They arrived at the car. "Well, since you're here, Gogol, you'd better come with us," said Fritz. "Quick! here come those cameras. 

"To the hotel," he told the driver. And there they were, hip to hip, in the back seat: Fritz, little Ivan, Gogol, and Magdalena. 

"Dr. Gogol is the man who rescued your mother when they were lost at sea in the lifeboat," Fritz told Ivan. "You should tell him thank you for that." 

Ivan and Gogol glared at each other, then looked straight ahead again. 

They rode in silence until they halted at the porte cochere of the little hotel. "I've chartered a plane back to Buenos Aires," said Fritz. "Looks like it should be a clear night, soft winds. A good flight back home. Now, as for you, Dr. Gogol, I've arranged with the management here for you to stay on as long as you like. I hope you aren't offended. But I thought it was the least I could do for you. Considering everything you've meant to my wife."

"Yes," said Magdalena. “He's some kind of a man, my Gogol." She got out of the car, held out her hand. Gogol looked up at her wonderingly, climbed out, stood there with a dazed, pained, hopeful expression. 

"Goodbye, Dr. Gogol," she said, shaking his hand. "I hope--I hope you'll be well." She jumped back in, slammed the door and tapped on the glass in front of her.

Gogol stood and watched the taxi as it wove down the road among the fat feathering date palms until its movements couldn't be seen anymore. He went in, rang the bell at the front desk. "I understand Senor Skillington's made a reservation for me."

"Oh, yes, Dr. Lysenko. And he's left this for you."

The envelope was insultingly thin, considering what Skillington had taken from him. His eye filled with tears.

"Dr. Lysenko!"

Before he could even turn around, Dona da Silva was on top of him, oof! hanging from his neck and jouncing around like a marionette. 

"I lost you! You should have stayed and talked to those newspaper people, they were so funny! They took millions of pictures of me, I felt like Hedy Lamarr! Now come out on the terrace and have a drink. Yvonne's waiting for us." 

 

***

 

"Of course," Yvonne said, over the rim of her rum and Coca-Cola, "I'll make sure you have the finest equipment and facilities possible. And it goes without saying you can name your fee." 

Gogol shook his head. "I do not operate for money." 

"Fine, then. Do it just for the glory, a man like you can never have enough personal triumphs. Or," she said wryly, "is there something else you require of me?" 

Dona da Silva looked anxiously at him; but Gogol just smiled and shook his head again. 

"Then,” said Yvonne, "the only thing that remains is to arrange for some way to get you past the borders." 

"What borders, what do you mean?" asked Gogol. 

"Why, we've got to get you somehow into the United States, so you can see Stephen." 

"Madame Yvonne, that sounds like a singularly troublesome proposition. Don't you know there's a war on? The American borders must be guarded to the teeth. And we're foreigners, remember. I don't think either of us wishes to risk deportation. No. What I propose is that you send for your beloved, and have him meet us in some neutral rendezvous. I have a place in mind, in fact, not that far from here. It's perfectly suited for the sort of work we have in mind. I've got all the equipment we'll need all ready. Oh," he said, taking out a pen and pulling the napkin out from under his vodka. "Let me give you the address. Send a cable to that sanitarium in California, and tell Giese to arrange for Stephen to come down here right away. Tell him, er, you've found a brilliant radiotherapist who works out of a Brazilian uranium mine. In the meantime, we can get down to Sao Paulo on the next flight and prepare for Stephen's arrival. It won't take long. I'll just have to sterilize a few things, order in some supplies. It's a shame I can't invite Wong to help me, he'd be so interested in this." 

"Doctor, do you mean to say you want to do Stephen's operation in Sao Paulo?" 

"Why not? Brazil is the most forward-thinking country of this century. I spent some of the best years of my surgical career there. And I know for a fact that no one will disturb us, where we're going. No one ever has, no matter what I've gotten up to. Dona da Silva. I don't mean to leave you out. Would you care to honor me by observing this little experiment of mine? After all, you were the one who inspired it." 

 

****

 

That Gogol, you'll always find him in the creepiest places, Yvonne thought. Though it was ages ago, she still remembered the Gogol Clinic in Paris, on that nasty little narrow street, with its arched stone doorways and clammy grey walls. That was Versailles compared to this old wreck of a waterfront warehouse. Gogol ushered them out of the taxi; she felt like calling it back as it drove off. A stray dog snapped at her legs as she went up the steps. 

"Let's see if this works, said Gogol, ushering them into an ironwork-latticed elevator. "Of course," he added, clapping the door shut, "it's so rusty we might get stuck here forever. Or... he old cable might snap. Pffft!" They jumped as he made a teasing gesture, suggesting the plunge. He pulled the lever; it just creaked and went up, that's all. 

"This is an odd place for a surgery," said Dona da Silva.

"Well, we did what we could," replied Gogol. "This wasn't where we saw our regular patients, of course. We had a lovely little private surgery up in one of the smarter districts. But you couldn't do much with them at that location, especially since Marins prefers to do his finer work without anaesthetics, and the walls were so thin. So whenever we had one of our special cases, we'd bundle her up and bring her down here. And we could clean up afterwards very easily, with the river right there." 

He creaked open the gate, welcomed them out into a vast loft. A ceiling bulb glared on the other side of the door, throwing sharp menacing shadows into the room. "H'm!" said Gogol. "Don't tell me that idiot left the lights on all this time. But where's the electricity coming from? Is the generator still running? Couldn't be. Not all by itself." 

Yvonne heard a creak in the shadows. "I think there's rats," she said uneasily.

"This way," said Gogol, leading them towards the light. "Now, this you'll find very interesting. I constructed it myself, I call it: the Gogol Clinic South." 

Down the glaringly lit hallway they followed Gogol into a cobwebby whitewashed room, bare except for a steel roll-away table of the sort used for transporting patients, affixed with thick leather straps. "We call this the Quiet Room," Gogol told them. "It's for when we first bring them in. And this--oh, everything's so dirty!" he muttered disapprovingly. "This is the scrub room. Now, through here, this is my operating theater. I assure you, Yvonne, everything here will be perfectly in order by the time your husband arrives. Every object you see in this room will have been sterilized, including my gramophone," he added, gesturing to the Victrola which stood among some of the scattered surgical utensils.

"What a shame my Orlac records went down with the 'Orfeo,"' said Dona da Silva. "You could have played them for inspiration." 

"Orlac? Oh, no, far too nervewracking for an operation. For that you want Wagner, or--ah! no, this." 

Dona da Silva crinkled her eyes at the label: "'Begin the Beguine?" 

They entered a sort of mini-ward where gauze curtains draped themselves haphazardly round half a dozen little cots. Gogol stooped to pick up a battered stuffed bear spattered with rust-colored stains. "The recovery room," he smiled, fondling the little thing. 

One of the curtains moved, all by itself; Dona da Silva screamed. "Oh, those rats," Gogol said, shaking his head, "can't do anything about them." 

A trembling, clawlike hand closed round the hem of the curtain, thrust it aside. Now they all screamed; it was Marins, his lankiness gnarled down into the frame of a wheelchair. "No," said Marins, “you can't do anything about RATS, can you." 

He rolled closer as they stared. "I suppose you brought these two beauties here by way of a peace offering. Too bad I'm not in much condition to enjoy them. And, ohhhhhh," he groaned. "That one must have been meant to be mine. She looks just like Yvonne Orlac."

"So you're alive, Marins." 

"So are you, Gogol. Again. What brings you back to our little den of delight?"

"Madame Orlac's husband is coming. You remember, I told you about him, the piano player with the hands? I'm going to operate on him again." 

"While you're at it, I don't suppose you could operate on me, you see, this damn shark...no," he sighed. "I think it's beyond even your powers to repair me, Gogol." 

"Tch, tch. Never say that, Valdemar. Might I have a look? " 

"Why not. Draw the curtain, though. It's not an attractive sight for the ladies."

"Valdemar," said Gogol, grunting as he tugged him onto the cot, "remember that notebook you were trying to steal from us that night we shot you?" 

"Remember it? Ha! You think I'd let go of it, when I nearly died getting it?"

"You've got it?" said Gogol excitedly.

"Yes. Lot of good it's done me. Nothing in it about making a man grow back what he's lost, like a lizard." 

"I suppose it isn't legible anymore. It must have gotten wet, the ink must have washed away." 

"No, it's in pretty fair condition. The pages are warped, but you can still make out what's on them." 

"My resourceful friend," said Gogol. “I can't tell you what a difference this makes."

He contemplated what there was of Marins, naked on the grubby mattress. “Do you know," he said, "I'm thinking, there's just a chance I might be able to restore these missing parts of yours."

"Gogol, if I could believe that--" 

"That is," added Gogol, "if you could see your way to letting me have a look at that notebook." 

"Shylock!" Marins snarled.

"Oh, Valdemar," said Gogol reproachfully. He leaned forward, tweaked the point of his beard. "Please? Just a little, little peek. Just long enough to refresh my memory of certain procedures. I'll return it, I'll give you no trouble. On my mother's breast I swear it.”

"Well," said Marins. 

"You know, you never explained to me why you had such a passion to get that formula from Magdalena. Is it that you want to go on living forever and ever, like I'm doing?"

"What a stupid question." 

"All right then, why?" 

Marins grimaced. "How can I explain it? 

"When I first found out about it, I had the usual ambitions--world conquest, all the rest of it. But once I got possession of the notebook, all that went away. There was really only one thing I wanted. only one reason I could think of for using that formula, that could ever matter to me. 

"Let me sketch out a situation for you. All right. You've found some appealing little bitch. She's got nice legs, and a pretty scream.... What can you do with her? You get excited, and rush things, then it's all over before you can savor it. Or you try to hold back, and stretch it out over a few nights, to make it last." 

"You're very good at that," said Gogol. 

"Used to be. I can barely pull the legs off a damn cockroach these days! But what I want, Gogol, is something...less transitory. 

"When I find a girl that's just right, I want to hold on to her for a while. Really test her limits. And if I could fix it so she couldn't give up and die on me.... I've really come to believe they can will themselves to get away from you that way, it's so infuriating. If I could keep one with me long enough for her to get accustomed to me, to appreciate and really understand me, I think, I think I could teach her to...well, love me, Gogol. And then everything would seem so much more to a purpose, do you see?" 

"Oh, so," said Gogol. 

He tapped what was left of Marins' torso reassuringly. "Valdemar. Why didn't you tell me before? If a zombie lover is what you want, I can put you in touch with a lady in the Caribbean who can make dozens of them for you." 

"Really?" said Marins. 

“Truly. Now. Give me the book. Better yet, give it to the women. We'll send them back to the hotel with it. Then we can set about preparing for all the work that's ahead of us. Now, where is it?"

Marins scowled. "In the Victrola."

"We'll go get it," said Yvonne quickly. "Come on." 

They tiptoed in, lifted the lid. There it was, warped and mildew-colored from the leaching dyes in the ink and pasteboard cover that held it together.

"My, my!" said Yvonne. "The genuine article! I'd be the hit of Universal City if I could show this around." 

"You don't think it's real, do you?" said Dona da Silva. 

"My darling. What's really real, when you're living in a monster film?" 

 

**

 

"Madame Orlac," said Ernst. "Really." 

He took a swift puff of his cigarette--wretched American tobacco--how he longed for his Sobranies--damn Hitler!--and coughed angrily.

"That's the fallacy your professional egotism would naturally lead you to, Ernst," responded Yvonne coolly. "You see a man who operates outside the laws of society, and you say he's sick. The assumption being, that you can cure him. But Gogol doesn't suffer from any delusions or neurotic inhibitions. Well. Nothing worth mentioning anyway. The point is, he operates from a principle of complete self-interest. He acts on pure instinct. Whatever he wants, he takes it. Psychopathic, you say? Perhaps, if you judge him by the standards of normal human psychology. But he's more than human, isn't he? You might say he's a Superman now. He transcends mortal laws, even as he's transcended the boundaries between being and nothingness. I think we can give him the benefit of the doubt, for crimes he committed two lifetimes ago. Anyway, he's quite a different Gogol from the one I knew in Paris. You didn't know him then, he was quite impossible. Like a child, moody and petulant, running round his surgery screaming at his nurses. You just wanted to take your hairbrush and.... Well, now you only need to look at him to know something's changed. It's as if someone's made a man of him, almost." 

"Madame, even if what you say is true, don't you feel any hesitations about putting Stephen under that man's scalpel? Remembering all that happened the last time." 

"Oh, but this is different,” Yvonne replied. “It’s not even major surgery. Just a little fine-tuning. What could possibly go wrong?" 

 

***

 

"Wait," said Ernst. "Before you go in, Doctor Gogol." 

Ohhh, you one-eyed monster. How I'd love to get you back on the couch and dig around in that warped little brainpan of yours again. 

"Of course it's natural that he might become agitated at meeting you, given the circumstances between you," Ernst said. "I've given him a good dose of ergot in preparation. But much of the success of this meeting depends on how you conduct yourself. I suggest you not make any sudden movements, or say anything the least bit antagonistic. In fact, I think it would be best if you didn't say anything. Let's be peaceful, no emotions. Let's just make it a quick how-do-you-do, and then we can all have a whiskey and prepare for the next step."

"Which is?"

"Doctor. Consider. This man, who once stabbed you to death, must prepare himself to lie prostrate, unconscious and helpless, under the point of your knife."

"Ah," said Gogol.

They went in. The delicate man who sat in the velvet armchair, with Yvonne's hand on his shoulder, was ever so much more beautiful than Orlac ever was. The perpetual dogged frown of tension had been released, allowing his handsome features to relax into place. Far from being hysterical, he seemed far more serene than Gogol, who suddenly felt the universe curve and tilt, and the sound in his ears grow tinny, in that peculiar way extreme anxiety has of playing funhouse mirror with your senses. 

"Doctor Gogol," said Orlac, "you might have told me you weren't really dead. Do you know how many Paternosters the father confessor made me say when I told him I was a murderer?" 

Gogol shut his eye hard, but the tears came out anyway.

"Oh, I'm not really angry at you, old chap," Orlac said. "I can't hold anything you've done against you. God knows I can't blame you for loving Yvonne, and as for strangling her, well, I've been tempted to do the same myself more than once. None of that matters, though, the only thing that does matter is that we've all been given a second chance. A chance at forgiveness, and atonement." 

Overcome, Gogol sank to his knees, prepared to prostrate himself.

"Now, now. None of that Russian stuff, Gogol. A handshake, that'll do." 

Gogol looked up to see Orlac proffering his hand to him, with an encouraging nod. He took it, shook it. 

"And so now you're going to fix these old hands of mine, are you?" 

Gogol turned the hand in his, examining it. 

"Don't know if there's much point in it, really," said Orlac. "I'll never be fit for the concert stage again, that's certain. It's been seven years since my accident. To be out of commission all that time--how can I ever build myself back into what I was?" 

"But Monsieur Orlac, surely you haven't abandoned your art altogether. You've been practicing, haven't you?" 

"Playing's always been part of my therapy. You started me on it as soon as I was out of the bandages. Well of course, being a keyboard player yourself you understood how important that was. And then at the asylum, they were always trying to get me to play. Giese here, he hounds me if I'm not at the piano half the day every day. Look, I know what you're leading up to, Doctor, but it's no good. I can't be a world-class pianist without world-class hands. I can never be anything but a mediocre player with these clumsy mitts at the ends of my arms, don't you understand? You can tinker with them all you like, but they'll never respond the way the old ones did. They're just too thick and heavy and oh, I've put you all to a lot of trouble bringing me down here, and I'm sorry, but it's the truth. I know you're the most brilliant orthopedist who's ever lived, Gogol, and I'm confident you can work wonders with tendons and cartilage. But what about bones, Doctor? Can you whittle them down to make them light and delicate enough to manipulate at a feather-stirring breath...or what about nerves, can you tighten them so they'll respond to a brainflash, quicker than lightning? No, it's beyond mortal power to make over these cloddish things into the hands of Orlac. I think the only way you could do it is to cut these stupid things off, and give me the hands of a Paderewski." 

"Or," said Gogol, half to himself, "the hands of a first-rate surgeon." 

He rose to his feet.

"Monsieur Orlac, I know you doubt me. Why shouldn't you, after all, I failed you before, when it fell to me to restore your genius. But I ask you this one favor. One more chance, to right the injustice I've done you. If I fail, the pain I'll feel will be far greater than yours. But I promise you this. No matter what the outcome of this procedure, you will play the piano again. And never less brilliantly than you did before."

"That's a generous promise, Gogol. I won't hold you to it. But thank you for trying." 

"Thank you, Monsieur. For allowing me to try again." 

Gogol bowed, and went out, and that was the last anyone saw of him that night. 

He walked through the shadows along the river, where nothing human dwelt. His reflection caught in the shallows; he stopped, turned and confronted it.

"Gogol, you have led three lives. What have you done with them? 

"What has been the purpose of your time here? What have you learned? Have you found the way to fulfill your human destiny, to love and work, as others do? Or has something more terrible happened? Has all this resulted in your becoming more intenselymore inexorably, this thing called Gogol?" 

He turned to the shadows; there also, in a way, was his reflection. 

"You always think you've found the thing that will make you like other men. Yet every satisfaction you have ever tried for has vanished in your embrace. You pledged to do right by Orlac. But once again you lied; you are impotent to help him. And so who is it you're patching up instead? Marins, that...that....”

He faltered, suddenly overwhelmed by an ecstatic vision. Something smiled back at him from the shadows. 

"Yes yes," he cried softly. 

He walked back to the warehouse. Marins lay in the recovery room cot he'd set aside as his own. Dreaming, maybe, of the young stevedore he'd pointed out to Gogol as the preferred potential source of the salvage body parts he required. Never thinking of the trouble Gogol would have trying to trundle all that deadweight down the waterfront by himself. 

Gazing down at his snoring colleague, Gogol picked up a pillow from the adjoining cot. "So mote it be," he murmured. And he popped the pillow over Marins' face. 

 

***

 

"Doctor Gogol, whatever's the matter?"

"Was I dreaming? Was I dreaming?" 

"Of course you were. At least I think you were. Or do you always scream bloody murder in the middle of the night for no particular reason?" 

"Only a nightmare, then, thank God. But it was terrible! It was Orlac--I'd done something to him. I'd turned him into a monster, like a patched-up rag doll, all made out of corpses. And he was running through the streets, tearing people to piecesI was covered in blood, I was drowning in it--" 

"Doctor, please! You'll wake up everybody on this train. Here, I'll get you some water."

"No, no, Dona da Silva, don't leave me, please." 

"Doctor. What would people say, it they knew I was here in your berth in the middle of the night?" 

"Oh Dona da Silva, how could I have been such an imbecile as to make the same mistake twice? And why didn't I realize it before this moment? We've got to go get Orlac, cut off his hands before it's too late!" 

"What are you talking about!"

"I--I only wanted to help him, but--but now it's worse than before! Do you know what I've done to him? I've given him the hands of--of a murderer!"

"Now, now, you haven't done anything of the sort. Everything's fine!"

"Oh, how can I explain to you? These hands are infinitely more evil than the other ones. There's no telling what they might be capable of. They--they might even--Yvonne--oh, my God, she's in danger, we've got to tell her!" 

"Doctor, I think it's time for your suppository." 

"Dona da Silva, please!" 

"No more of this nonsense! Now, are you going to take it yourself--or should I give it to you?" 

Soon, he was nodding. "That's better," she said, snuggling in next to him. "You just settle down now, and before you know it, we'll be home." 

"Home?"

"My home. Bahia. Remember? Oh. You probably don't. Well, right after you did the operation on Stephen, you were very tired. It took so long, nearly twelve hours, you were limp as a little rag doll! So we put you down for a nap, and then we went to go sit with Stephen, to wait for him to wake up from the anaesthetic, you know. Well, he did, and he was perfectly all right, quite cheery, in fact. But then you started screaming your head off. Doctor Giese and I ran in, and you were jumping all over the bed--you said there were hands all over your bed. Not hands attached to anything, just cut-off hands crawling around trying to strangle you. Doctor Giese had to stick the gas mask over your face to get you to calm down a little. Then I sat with you for a while--oh, you poor thing! You were perspiring so hard I went to get some ice from that little refrigerator in the surgery. 

"And you know what I found in there? They were hands, real hands! In a metal pan. Euggh! Well, I thought, this was experimental surgery, after all, and maybe you'd found a couple of old hands to practice on before you worked on Orlac's hands. But, of course, you'd finished the operation by that time. I didn't think you'd need them anymore. And I thought, no use leaving them here. So I wrapped them up in an a piece of old cloth, and I took them outside, and I dug a little hole for them, and planted some weeds on top. Oh, and I went back and washed out the pan. Well, and that's it. Yvonne decided she might as well put Stephen in a private hospital until he was well enough to travel back to California, so that's what she did. And Doctor Giese said he was going to put you in a hospital, too.

"But that seemed ridiculous to me. There's nothing wrong with you! You just got a little woozy and confused, anyone would under the circumstances. I waited till he went out to use the telephone. Then I made you get up and smuggled you out. I really wasn't sure what to do with you. We couldn't stay in Sao Paulo, with Giese threatening to send the men in white coats after us! So, I lugged you over to the train station, and here we are." 

"Wh--what about the notebook?" 

"Your precious notebook! No, I didn't forget that. It's in my little handbag up there, all safe and cozy." 

"Then. We've got it. We've got the secret of life, Dona da Silva."

"Oh, yes. We've got many, many secrets...my darling." 

 

**

 

GOGOL'S DREAM

Mother, why is this night different from other nights?

Because it's your birthday. Blow out the candles. 

What's that dish over there? 

We fill it for the sandman. 

Who's that? 

It's the Doctor, who cuts off the hands of bad children. Give him a drink and he'll leave you alone. 

She gave him a kiss. It felt so good that he floated. 

Gogol, my love, I'm dying! 

No, you're nowhere near that. But give her a little gas, for mercy's sake. If you were dilated to eight, you wouldn't be so well-mannered. 

Did I do this to you?

I did it myself. 

Let me see. Get out. I can't see.

That's my son, not yours. 

Get out.

She's my mother, not yours!

OUT!

He cried so hard. Little boy lost, what shall I call thee?

Go.... Go love. Without the help of anyone on earth. 

 

***

 

"Here's your headpiece," said Sofia unenthusiastically, tossing it on the bed. "Try it with the veil, and we'll see if we can get it to stay on this time." 

Then she noticed the tears. "Why," said Sofia, "what's wrong?" 

"Take it away!" sniffled Dona da Silva. "I don't need it, keep it, maybe you'll use it someday, if you're luckier in love than I am!"

"Calm down now, what are you--" 

"Haven't you heard'? There'll be no wedding! He's left me!"

Shivering, miserable, she let herself be enveloped by Sofia's ample arms. 

"For the last two months," she sobbed, "he's acted so strangely. First thing, he'd insist that Joao go out and get him the out-of-town papers, the ones from Buenos Aires. He'd only read part of them, just the birth and death announcements, then he'd throw them away, and be in the oddest mood for the rest of the day. 

"Then yesterday morning, he was reading his Argentine paper--I don't know how, he doesn't know any Spanish--and suddenly he said 'Ha!' and ran out of the room. And that's it! Nobody's seen him since. And all the money out of my father's money box is missing--and my uncle's passport--and that stupid old notebook he was always dragging around--" 

"Blessed Jesus!" breathed Sofia, clapping her hands with relief. "Let him run, let him run to the farthest point of the earth from here, and don't let anyone find him!" 

 

**

 

The little doctor walked quickly past the nurse on desk, nodding without turning in her direction, and hove straight into the darkened nursery. There were rows and rows of baskets, each with its warm, sticky occupant. It was a humid night, and there were really more in there than the room could comfortably hold. For some reason there had been a run on babies this season, maybe because of the war. Somewhere on earth, with all this slaughter going on elsewhere, humanity had to be fruitful and multiply.

Bending over, tilting his head and squinting in the half-light, he checked each of the bassinets he passed. At one he lingered, forsaking all others thereafter. He reached down to finger the black straight hair, so much of it! and the pinkandwhite beaded bracelet spelling SKILLINGTON round the little wrist. As his thumb and forefinger softly closed round her palm, she looked up at him with astonished, great brown eyes. He stooped, slowly slipped his hands under her back, then, closing his arms carefully round her as he stood up again, held her with the strenuously maintained delicacy of one who knew theoretically how such a creature must be supported, but was unsure as to the actual feel of such a thing. 

Warily, he carried her to the glass wall of the nursery, and looked to all sides visible in the corridor outside. Then, stepping fast among the bassinets, he went out, heading the opposite way he'd come, darting down the first stairway he came to. Pausing on the stairwell, shifting her from one crook of the arm to the other, he managed to pull off his surgical cap, gown, and trousers. Panting with relief, he fanned himself for a moment; his gray silk suit was confining enough, in this heat, without those smothering extra layers of cotton.

He hurried down the stairs, down the hallway they opened onto, and out into the dark city. He didn't want to run, but he walked as smartly as he could, until he was five or six blocks away from the hospital. Then he sat down on a stone bench in a church courtyard, sheltered from the street by flowering shrubbery. Laying his little companion carefully down in his lap, her head on his knees, he looked down in contemplation.

"So, you don't cry! Your deportment is so ladylike, I'm very impressed. I hope this means you have a taste for travel. Because we're going somewhere very far away, and we don't want anyone to follow us. For the plan is, it's only going to be you and me, from now on, for ever. So we must be quite quiet! Quite quiet, my little Yvonne."

 

April, 1995


End file.
